' •- ;• " V ^ \ ; ' 

.f. < 

' * .i • -v • * I - 4 

• *4 •» - i » I 

i < . « • 4 . * - 4 

f ' I I » A \ : 

: 4 ** I ^ < 4 •€ 

• f '• * » 1 


^ • I 


1 . 'v . <• M - I 


5 • 'V I % i T I 

f’* V' 1 '# 

‘ ^ . *. ; r 

:%.% ,i 

• j '.. ’ .■• r» 

, r r I ■ 

« C t 4«. I M 

• y ' • I ^ • . 

•I 4 t. 4 « 4 

I /* • « -V • ^ • * 

* 4 • 4 %4 

4 'i 4 ik ^ 


4»4.*,.-.‘-. 

I 4^ 4 o . 4 ' • . 4 ♦ 
1 > » 4 • r. i > I r » f ♦ 

% '9 • 4 T 4 • • 

. ‘ I 4 . • • -» • i t . 

;♦ i '!•’ J 

* ’ « J I ‘‘! » % j I * 4 

: \ i ‘ ^ *y • •• 

4 4 ' 4 *4 f n *' 4 * 

’ 4 ^ ^ 4 *>►'«. M • ’ . V* 

’ 4 . » 7 1 - r * < * • t f* V 

1 ' ' M t • ^ 

» *^ • • *. *• t f* • *' .- A I 


f f 

• M V 

la 


r 

1 fc’ T 

^155 


T' S 

;.T,w*'. 


f t 


« ii r > » 

9 f » r -• 


«4.'^ 


^t^^ 
4 4 


« UV 7 ; ?’«., 

Ill* 


.w^,% r ' 4 ;t 

4 ' 4 ^ 4 4 4 

M f 4 » 

I , ‘ 1 I • ‘V 

4 I f 4 

* . i* M , 

• 1 % * i 

* I ' • X * 

-» • H* • . * 4 . 

\ . • • • • V • 

*444# 

- / 4 I 

fi. * r-r • % . 

^ V4 M 


. » « ^ ^ .t -.4 • 4 

4 I /' 4 % I ^ 

.« • . % 

^ y ^ M \ i 1 4 

4 ».• \t • k 

4 ' 4 '•4 , 4 '4 4 > 4 *•. 

' •- • ,» I I : I - , ^ 4 I 

*# 4 ’4 0 , \ ^ r 

5 *. ;'r, ’ . •‘.♦•Vv 


J - ' 

It# 

j*’ ? 


t’.Y 

J“rv’ 

-j « 


I j • •» 4 * M r . i — 


* 4 • • 4 ’ J j I .t4 

< » ♦ ; ^ y T . I . « M 

^ ^ f . . • I f 

-i . i ^ . r / i ' I' 


*4» ^ 4 5^4 4 4 

!".i 

5 ^ 5 • 7 ‘ ?f 7 ^ 

•I't 4 *4..f 4 4^; 4 

* ^ /4 4* 0 4^414 4 1 , 

,",.i“ . rf r i ■ ^ • *♦ . - ^ 

< « , I > 4 ^ • • ; 4 i 4 


'*4 ^ 

•Vi 

• j < 

_<• • 


* V t * 7 

•: .*tT‘ t 

I * A s y t 

« ‘ J* 


H) 

V:^ 


i/l, •- 
;.i'; r;. 

^ I 1 4 

.4 t *1 f 

• ^ » \ -1 i 
: • r.' » 7K 
>. H. t » I 
2< 4 « 4 

1 nf ;< 


>. H. t % i 

2< 4 « 4 

1 h1 ;< 

^i<n 

I i 4 x 4 

• ' ' 4 




f 


. * 4 . . '4 

« 4 i * > 

f .• y f^o 

t .. V > r - 

‘ ♦ '-i ' 

r-r-t^ 

J' 

V*' 1 ♦ 

* r- 4 *.:^ 

•* -4 4 4 ^ •. 

• I I i ^ * 

4 T^. f - 


^;t 

iT't, 


9 • 94 ^ 

• 4 

«fi 4 «»■ t 


tt* 1 

f ’ 

4 * • 

» 4 jr « 


>4 wft 'ft . ft 

ft J* * 

1-4.4 

4 >4 

1 .-•»■*■ V' 

» V. ft — 1 
^ i .V 4 


V ^ . . • 

► X * r. *' 

t i • 


* '* 1 .s 

• * ft t 

.•• -^4 

::v'^ 

M ‘i" 

t ' 

A M, , t 

1 »• 1 « 

. 14 4 14 

«- » i \4 ^ 


• 1 M 

1 4 

'■4 4 . 

lift, 


1 ' 1 • ' 

* ft 

*ftf 4 

11 • 4 

• ^ ft .1 

• • « ;. • 

'* 4 -.4 . 

V * 1 

' ^. . ft. 1 

• 

. • -ft 

ftt .•-<•, *4 4 


9 1 


' 1 >1 * 


M * f': T 

'Vv^Vv 

* V 7 J 


.1 ^ <' 


r:0^:7 

'.4 V4 ^ 


Jl^ if 


» ^ ^ * . 

* * ^ » - • 

I ^ ^ « I A 


i aL •'X 4 


1 4 »2 • ...' t ..' t ^ 

i 9 '4 4 € 4 % 4 ^4 

# • A • • • * J l ■* I /• 4 » 


I JT f 4 
> ; 4 . ' • 


• .} • 

■ V-f 

V i 4 ' 
; ! ; . 


V' 


U • • 

4 w 

. ■;!? 


f 


4 V 4 » 

• t « 

• -V# /J 

f 


4 4» 4 ^ > 
•J I -J4 V ^ 

4 4 4 


J.'ci'lV 

v?:Yr?' 

tfitc 

9 hi .' I 

'1 * • *7 


« < 


4i t /I I 4 


I ^4 


.w .• - V 

^ i ^ % Mi 

9 ' t . # 


• -* 1 » 4 «•» 4 




ft '.• t - 1 ••* I • 4 

' < -• ^ 4 

4 4 « > • I 

• ^ • 1 . * •* I ^« I . 

t - 4 I 4 

% ' ♦ ' 4 “ 4 4 




t - 4 I 4 

% ' f ' 4 “ r V I 

.41 4 # 

« A X » • ^ I S' ' 

t 4 ‘4 •“ 

«• « 4T 4 ^ y •« t 

•P k* ' # , - iv 

4 t • 4 

•; 4 .*,»*♦'•. < 

I 4/ ^ «i i ^ ' «. 


n 4 -v 


. 4 

« 4 « 

I r 


• # 

.* 4 r 

• ••» **. 

* 4 i* 

’.rv 

• « i J# «i • «• 
.• t « ^ « .4 


•L: y %. k 9 ' 7 

1* I . f > • 


V »• « *5 » 


4 W « 

« 9 

I ^ - I - 4 


vJ, 

-4 


% % 


'• 9 •-% 4 ' « ♦*. 

Mi* ^ \ 
s; % VJi I Y ^ - !• ^ 

4 % 


f t 4 •T 4 ‘ 
% > "X % A < 


t *^4 
w r Ji 


»444.>^«W ^ • .< 


IS 

y-f - 

« 4 ^ / 

• ' I e 

;'T 

•? 4 S t 
" . • ^ 
I V 4 


% > "X- t A< w r« *#444.>^« • i ^ * . < 

f 4 •' # •: 4 4 * J ^ • • • s V 9 J ' • - J 

«• '«• 

A 4 4.* U • C* 4 4 3v 4 ^ # *4 4 .*4 

-i 4 




\4 .0 ^4 


•fr • rM ^ » * 

4 4 9* 

♦ • ^ ^ 4 • 

f • « t • • 

4 ' \ ' 

4 ♦ ft 

- 4 - I « I ^ 

i i. . ^ ., 

4 I 4 1^4^4 

> » I • r . 4 VI 

t ‘4 4 • • . I 

t' i ^ ^ * A 7 '. 

0 '9 t 9 4 

t J • 9: k ^ 4 « 4 . 

0 . % i * ' 0 

, 4 s « M ^ I ^ ^ 

• ’ > 4 

• ft « I 

\ ft “ 4 

I « ft il 4 '4 

« C > •- ' M* H 

ft • • « 

ft ^ 4 ^ 4 

4 1 i 


‘ -p '•»'■? i 

4 

< *• 


t b 4 *A r I 


t t ^ I t 

4 ^ ^ ft 


^ 4 •• 4 • • A 

ft - ft ' ft i- • ♦ * 

.• 4 V 4 •- 


€ V ‘ft 


# 1^1 * :l 

^ ft 4 - « I ^ 
ft 4 :^4 I 4 # 

« ft » » > ' . » * 

< V 9 • ft' • 4 1 

4 # t •# ♦ *• 

< <• I t I ^ 

t ^ 4^*^' 

9 ^ ^ GM • If ft i » 
n 


» I V ft ♦ 


4 4 4^1 


4- • 
e • 

V - ft* 

I *• • 

J 


4 I « i < • « « 

4 4 • • I 4 • '4 

*1 

\ t ‘\ i i ^ ^ * ' { Jm \ 1 4 3 « 

t 4 - 4 • 4 ft i ftf^ 


- 4 U ft ^ t > t 

* 1. t « I #r I 4 


0 4 ft • .* 

^ 'J-’.iit'T ■i''t 'T 








































V 




^ ^ '0({l//y^ ^ A’’ •*. e 

'. ■'oo' 

* U^. ^0 o. 


“ v\^’ ^n 

^ '-C-: 



■>^ ^ 

. rj^ r ^ 

^ ’\ O^ 'V 

cO’^'-A '^o^ “ 

,\ <1. -TVVsW’^ ✓ 



^ t\ rt ^ A 0 % - ]& ^ vC^ 

^ .0^ ^ 0 /• C> V ^ ^ 

^ - A*^ > <? ^ *^ ^ 

^ c> 


X 


\V 

-f I'o 

„ ' ■ a'< ' 

K : xo : 

•< • « t ''c- 

^ <^' .V 


V ^ 

c^ y 


'=^. 'i' 

0 N 0 

, ^ 

A 



’V ^ 


^ y 


y r. . ^ .< 


o 

•v ^ 

a\ ' . 0 N (, ^ ^ \ « '■<* 


0 ^ V 


<\ 



0 V)' *> 

1 

* .'■■ ^'*^ '-■ 

c> s " A ^ 

'''■ %/ * 

y 


/» - ^ 

^ °<. - ■>^: 
•' 0^ '^- 


^ =. . ^ 

=;.- ^ .<;v o 

z 



.0 H 0 ^ 

o* ^ 


^ : 'V'^» ■'b o'! . eaw^-^o 

X°'b- ' "' ‘ 



' % /’ *>^'*yv«X ’^‘ 

,f. <<r* ^ 2 : 

" “ u ^ >. 

O ^ o 

^ • '^rj. ■aV <?' ■% 

A O A' S 

‘^\ c ® -9 '^ b " 


■ V 

' y 


^ o * ^ 


% b 

v'-o^yy* 

y 

V v 

A ^ 






'* ^0' ^ ^ O 9 K ’ \ 

rC>^ ' c. '^' 



y 

V " 

5^ ^ ^ 

r A "o 

A 

Z 

A 

d^. ^^31111 

liji^^ «> A 

IPS^ -to 
fW^ ^ .A 

% 

o 

\j 



^ 0 ^ \ A 


=> 



t ^ ^ 0 , V - A ^ ^ ^ 

* ^ A> ^ 'f .^c 

a-'l'P vl^ 

^ = ^°°'«- " 


■1 ^ , D * 

/y 45 ^ -AN ^ 

^ r " 

' » .'*^ l* .^Cp “^o *■ 



’ '‘° . 0 > .' •«, '^C' 


oy 

" _ 0 ^£/r^ i> A ‘s 

; ■>bo^ , ^ > 

^ -A. * 

y* 






vA 



« nD 
r\ *’ 


«• 

^ 0 >^ \'^ n N C '<**'''’ A 

iX' . 0 " C ^ qV 

0 ^ 

" 0 - ■>* V '' 

^ O 0 ^ 

o 5 - 




A'^ * 3 0 ^ 8 1 A " \v s * 0 ? O 



CviS*s. 














^3] APPLETONS’ ^3° 

fowN AND Country Library 


SHED SEMI-MONTHLY November, i 1891 $10.00 PER ANNUM 

UL_*_1_ ■»■'■*■ Mil ■ ■'^l»^ll:■^l■■lll^lll^lll■lli:^lll^||l^lll■ll^^^) :^|||^ . jji'u'll,. ■ ■ ■ ■ : ■' f" 


y 

''S' 


IE Johnstown 


Stage 


And Other Stories 


By ROBERT HOWE FLETCHER 

AUTHOR OF “A BLIND BARGAIN,” Etc. 



ENTERED AT THE POST-OFFICE AT NEW YORK AS SECOND-CLASS MAIL MATTER 


* 


D. APPLETON & CO., NEW YORK 


WLETONS’ 
LmRAKf^ 


SEMI-MONTHLY 



“The red-brown covers of Appletons’ Town and Country Library have come to be a: 
almost infallible sign of a story worth reading. In the series a poor book has not yet bee 
published .” — Toledo Bee. 

“ Each is by a story-writer of experience, and affords a few hours of agreeable entej 
tainment. ’ Cincinnati Times- Star. 

” Comprises stories by some of the best-known and most popular authors of the day.”- 
Petersburg Index-Appeal. 

“The publishers of the Towm and Country Library have been either particularly sagi 
cious or very fortunate in the selection of the novels that have thus far appeared in thi 
excellent series. In the total of eighty volumes or so, not one is lacking in positive merii 
and the majority are much above the'average fiction of the day. Any person who likes 
good story well told can buy any issue in the Town and Country Library with the utmoj 
confidence of finding something well worth while.”— Beacon. 

“ There Is a high average of excellence in these issues, and the reader is tolerably sui 
of entertainment in picking up one of the dark-red coyevs.'''— Philadelphia Telegraph. 


LATEST ISSUES. 

77. Maid Marian, and other Stories. By Molly Elliot Seaweli 

author of “ Throckmorton,” etc. 

78. One Woman’s Way. By Edmund Pendleton, author of “ A Virgini 

Inheritance,” etc. 

79. A Merciful Divorce. By F. 'W. Maude. 

80. Stephen Ellicott's Daughter. By Mrs. J. H. Needell. 

81. One Reason Why. By Beatrice Whitby, author of “A Matter c 

Skill,” “ Part of the Property,” etc. 

82. The Tragedy of Ida Noble. By W. Clark Eussbll, author of “ Th 

Wreck of the Grosvenor,” etc. 


Each, 12mo, paper cover, 50 cents ; cloth, 75 cents and $1.00. 


For sale by all booksellers., or will be sent by mail on receipt of price by the publishers, 

D. APPLETON & CO., 1, 3, & 5 Bond Street, New York. 


THE JOHHSTOWlSr STAGE 


AND OTHER STORIES 


BY 



EGBERT HOWE FLETCHER 

AUTHOR OP A BLIND BARGAIN 



NEW YORK 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
1891 




O 



/ 


Copyright, 1891, 

By D. APPLETON AND COMPANY. 


All rights reserved. 


CONTENTS. 


V The Johnstown Stage 

V Corner Lots — A Tale of a Boom . 

/ Gentleman Jack 

/ Moses Cohen, the Jew 
VCast Away — A Love Story 

V'Between the Acts 

Dick — A Naval Story .... 

V The Old Spanish Bedstead — A Ghost Story 

V The Mystery of a Studio .... 


PAGE 

. 5 

. 30 
. 56 
. 80 
. 106 
. 132 
. 155 
. 185 
. 205 



THE JOHNSTOWN STAGE. 


City of Rocks was losing its sharp outlines in 
the radiating heat of a July afternoon. The un- 
broken, gray sage-brush plain surrounding it had al- 
ready lost its one outline, the horizon, and now 
merged itself in the distance of its own dustiness. 
The void between glaring plain and glaring sky was 
filled with hot silence. It was the silence of sohtude 
j’^^disturbed by humanity j for the only human habi- 
tation in the City of Rocks was the stage station, and 
that, in its square, uncompromising adaptation to its 
uses, seemed lonelier than the rough, but sometimes 
beautiful, and almost fantastic, stone formations 
around it. Any one could see why this place was 
called City of Rocks. Its name fitted, as most fron- 
tier names fit, until they are subjected to the per- 
sonal vanity or nicer sense of modesty of refined 
map-makers. But any one could not see why its un- 
hewn, granite masses should rise so abruptly and un- 
reasonably from the level, sage-brush desert.’ To an 
imaginative or cultivated mind there was something 
eerie about these castle turrets and cathedral spires, 
seen afar in an uninhabited land j and to such, an 


6 


THE JOHNSTOWN STAGE. 


armed knight with lance in rest, charging across the 
plain, would not have been out of place. Such a 
person, necessarily a passenger on the Johnstown 
stage, with vague anticipations of a romance, would 
very likely question the stage-driver. The reply, 
without doubt, would be that this was an outcrop- 
ping of the same ledge in which they had struck 
high-grade ore over in the Blue Gulch district. If 
the driver felt like talking, the additional fact might 
be extracted that the Indians called it The seven 
houses where the witches laugh.” This would sound 
promising, but the questioner would find that this 
was aU there was of it. Indeed, it is more than 
probable that the questions of the imaginative and 
cultivated stranger would ere this have elicited from 
the driver the sole but pregnant fact that the Idaho 
and North-western Stage Company paid him only 
to drive. 

The Johnstown stage was due at City of Rocks at 
five o’clock. About that hour a man in a flannel 
shirt, dirty soldier-trousers tucked in his boots, and 
a slouch hat on the back of his bronzed, bearded, un- 
kempt head, materialized in the obscurity of the 
doorway of the station-house, and shading his eyes 
with his hand, looked down the road. As he stood 
there, a cloud of dust became visible in the distance. 
It floated and wavered nearer and nearer, until the 
creaking and jinghng of dry wood, leather, and 
metal, and the pounding of hoofs, were heard. Then, 
as the cloud approached the station, an apparition 
of two horses and a stage-coach was seen within it. 


THE JOHNSTOWN STAGE. 


7 


The cloud stopped in front of the house, the dust 
settled, and the coach, coated inside and out with 
the white powder, was disclosed. The driver, look- 
ing like a miller, laid his whip on the roof, unbuckled 
his lines, threw them down, and prepared to descend. 
The station-keeper, who, meanwhile, had stepped out 
into the road and sdently commenced to unhook the 
traces, looked up for the first time. The next mo- 
ment he dropped the trace with an exclamation of 
wonder, while his hand slowly but instinctively 
sought the revolver which hung in a belt loosely 
about his hips. For a few seconds he scrutinized the 
face of the man who was swinging himself down 
from the box, and then his look of surprise changed 
to one of recognition, his hand relaxed its hold on the 
pistol, and he said heartily, “Well, PU be durned! 
Leftenant, is that you ! Why, what’s come of Jim ? ” 

“ He was taken sick down by Shot-gun Creek and 
had to lay olf at the milk-ranch,” said the man ad- 
dressed, taking off his hat and beating out the dust 
against his leg. He was tall and broad-shouldered, 
but slender, and was dressed in the same manner as 
the station-keeper, even to the revolver which hung 
about his hips. His voice and bearing, however, the 
only characteristics unaffected by the dust, betrayed 
a difference between them. 

“ Sick, nothing ! ” exclaimed the hostler, in a tone 
of disgust, taking out the straw which he held be- 
tween his teeth and throwing it energetically on the 
ground. “ That fellow’s al’ays sick ! I’m durned ef 
I don’t b’lieve he’s weakened sence Whistling Dick 


8 


THE JOHNSTOWN STAGE. 


jumped his stage last month ! He^s yeard that the 
paymaster’s sending his money up by express this 
trip to pay off the boys at the fort, and he’s afeard 
he’ll git jumped agin, durn him ! That’s w’at’s the 
matter. It leaves me in a purty fix ! ” he continued. 

Frank’s out after stock, aiid there’s no one yere but 
me. Who’s goin’ to take the stage on ? ” 

“ I’ll take it on as far as Pack City, if you hke,” 
said the heutenant. The old man wiU fiind some 
one there to take Jim’s place easy enough.” 

The station-keeper, without repl^dng, mechanically 
resumed his duties of taking out the horses, and 
watched them meditatively as they walked slowly off 
to the stables. Then finally turning to the lieuten- 
ant, with the air of one whose mind is made up, he 
said : “ By thunder, I guess that’s the only thing we 
hin do. I can’t leave yere. I wouldn’t have a head 
of stock left by the time I got back. Them damned 
Injuns is gittin’ worse and worse, not to mention the 
hoss-thieves and road-agents, that’s gittin’ thickePn 
fleas on a dog’s back. It’s sort o’ crowdin’ you, 
though, lieutenant, and I don’t know what the old 
man’ll say.” 

''He won’t say thank you, at any rate,” said the 
lieutenant. 

"You kin gamble on that,” said the hostler, ap- 
provingly. "Who’s this Johnny-eome-lately ?” he 
added, as a passenger from the inside of the stage 
stroUed toward them. 

"He got on at Rocky Bar,” said the lieutenant. 
" Jim said he was a stock man.” 


THE JOHNSTOWN STAGE. 


9 


Jim ! ” growled the hostler, contemptously. 

Jim^s a stranger himself in these parts. How should 
he know ? ” 

And when the traveler, an elderly man, joined them 
with a sociable remark that “it was pnrty tol’able 
warm,” the hostler vented his scorn for Jim by ignor- 
ing him altogether and continuing his talk with the 
lieutenant about way-bills, express, mail, and other 
stage matters. But the man from Rocky Bar, ap- 
pearing in nowise affected by this lack of cordiality, 
held his ground, and it he did not join in the conver- 
sation, listened to it so persistently that the hostler 
finally turned to him, and said rather sarcastic- 
ally, “Stranger, is there anything I can do fer 
you ? ” 

“Well, no, pard,” replied the traveler, good-hu- 
moredly, “ there’s nothin’ you kin do fer me, but I 
reckon you kin do somethin’ fer thet lady inside, she’s 
petered plumb out, and the kid’s yelling like all pos- 
sessed.” 

At this, the amateur driver walked over to the stage- 
door and looked in. There was the usual litter of 
mail-bags, and small bundles, and smell of dust and 
leather. Addressing the woman, who, in a long hnen 
duster, and with a veil over her face, reclined limply 
in one comer, half holding a crying baby, the lieu- 
tenant said, “ Supper station, madam.” 

Tliis announcement producing no reply, he re- 
peated it in a louder tone. The only result was an 
added force to the baby’s cries. 

“ I reckon she’s fainted,” said the other passenger, 


10 


THE JOHNSTOWN STAGE. 


appearing at his elbow with a cup of water j try this 
yere.” 

The lieutenant got inside, followed by the old man, 
to whom he imceremonionsly handed the baby. 
Talking ont his pocket-flask, he mixed a httle whiskey 
and water, and pushing the veil up from off the un- 
conscious mouth, he succeeded in partially reviving 
the exhausted woman. “Now then,^’ he said, in an 
authoritative tone, “you must come outside in the 
open air, and wash your face and hands 5 that will 
brace you up quicker than anything. Then when 
you have had some dinner, you will be all right. 
We haven’t much time,” he added. 

The woman obediently arose, but, cramped and 
worn out by the long day’s ride, had to be assisted to 
the ground. She succeeded in walking over to the 
water-trough, and sitting down on its edge, silently 
took her baby. The heutenant brought her a basin 
and towel, and left her to her toilet. Presently he 
returned and said, “ Supper is ready.” 

“ Thank you, I don’t want any supper,” was the re- 

ply- 

As he heard her speak for the first time, the lieu- 
tenant looked at the shrouded form with surprise. 
The voice was low and trained, the voice of a gentle- 
woman. It startled him with a swift suggestion of 
perfumed lace and six-button kid gloves, of waltz 
music, yachting, and low, murmured words in dim 
conservatories. The recollection of the fried pork 
and beans awaiting them in the station, however, 
brought his mind back to the subject. 


THE JOHNSTOWN STAGE. 


11 


I beg yoiir pardon,” lie said, but yon must eat 
something. Yon can’t stage all day withont eating.” 

Her back was turned toward him as she sat dabbhng 
her hand in the water for the amusement of the baby, 
and he went around and stood in front of her to em- 
phasize his remai'k. Her veil was still down, and she 
did not raise her head as she rephed, in the even 
tones of a superior addressing an overzealous inferior. 
You are very kind, but I don’t want anything.” 
The lieutenant was rather nettled at this; but, 
nevertheless, persisted. His interest was awakened. 
Besides, it would be very inconvenient to have her 
faint on the road. I hope you won’t think me ob- 
trusive,” he said, modulating his tone respectfully, 
but you must have something. If you would pre- 
fer it, I will bring it out here.” 

Then she looked up half -resentfully, half-curiously, 
evidently thinking that this was a very odd stage- 
driver. At last she said : “ You are giving yourself 
needless trouble, but as you insist upon it, I will take 
a cup of tea and a httle milk for the baby.” 

If her purpose was to rid herseK of his importuni- 
ties, her request was very effective. Tea! Milk! 
The heutenant returned to the station-house thought- 
fully puUing his mustache. ^^Now,” he said to him- 
self, that is like a woman ! Why couldn’t she ask 
for oysters and champagne, or something reasonable 
— ^but tea ! milh ! ” 

^^Nate,” he said, doubtfully, to the hostler, ^‘you 
don’t happen to have such a thing as — as tea about 
the house, do you ! ” 


12 


THE JOHNSTOWN STAGE. 


Why not ? ” replied the station-keeper, promptly. 

Oh, I don’t mean any sage-brush wash,” rejoined 
the lieutenant, impatiently ; I’m talking about store 
tea.” 

‘^WeU, that’s what I’m talking about,” said 
Nate j “ a Chinaman gave some to Frank, the other 
day.” 

Nate,” said the lieutenant, drawing out his flask, 

take a drink ! ” 

And in a few minutes he was carrying out a cup 
of tea and some crackers to the water-trough, un- 
conscious of the elaborate wink with which Nate, re- 
stored somewhat to good-humor by the unexpected 
drink, favored the i)assenger from Rocky Bar. He’s 
hell ! ” said Nate, admiringly. 

The lieutenant found the object of his solicitude 
as he had left her, enduring the discomfort of her 
condition with silent patience. 

“You are very good,” she said, more gently, but 
m the same even tone of a superior. Evidently this 
woman was accustomed to being waited on. 

“I suppose that condensed milk will do for the 
baby,” said the lieutenant ; “ have you anything to 
put it in?” 

Yes, certainly, the baby had a bottle. But, alas ! 
a search for the bottle revealed the fact that it must 
have been jolted out of the stage while the mother 
was unconscious. 

“ What shall I do ! ” she exclaimed, her fortitude 
suddenly forsaking her. “ He won’t drink out of a 
cup, and I am afraid he is hungry now.” Evidently 


THE JOHNSTOWN STAGE. 


13 


tears were gathering behind the veil, tears that she 
never would have shed for herself. 

‘‘ Oh, I can fix that easy enough,^^ said the stage- 
driving lieutenant, consolingly. 

Quickly entering the house once more, for time 
was getting precious, and the beans were getting 
cold, he seized an empty whiskey-bottle, washed it 
out, filled it with a hot mixture of condensed milk, 
drove the cork in tight, pared the cork down to a 
convenient size, and pierced it with a saddler’s awl ; 
then tearing a piece of hnen from his handkerchief, 
he padded the cork, and tied it securely. 

“There,” he said to the disconsolate mother, “I 
think that will work. I once raised a fitter of pup- 
pies on no better one.” 

The lady, who had smiled rather hopelessly at this 
cumbrous device, anxiously watched the infant’s at- 
tempts to manage it. The lieutenant, notmthstand- 
ing that the beans were getting cold, looked on with 
ahnost as much interest. An expression of content- 
ment gradually stole over the baby’s face. Evidently 
the bottle met with its entire approval. Then the 
mother gave the child a quick, delighted hug, and 
with a little, low laugh of relief, turned her veiled face 
to the driver and said, but this time her voice trem- 
bled : “ You are so kind ! How can I thank you ! ” 

But he only replied with an amused smile, and in- 
stinctively, though carelessly, lifting his hat, he went 
back to his supper of cold pork and beans, while the 
eyes behind the veil followed him with a look of in- 
creasing surprise and curiosity. 


14 


THE JOHNSTOWN STAGE. 


The stage, when it left City of Rocks, was twenty 
minutes late. But the jack-rabbits, which laid back 
them ears and scudded at its approach, found it no 
mean rival that afternoon. 

I’ll bet ten dollars he makes it up afore he gits to 
Stoney Creek, and not turn a hair ! ” said the station- 
keeper to himself. Then, after a further contempla- 
tion of the fast-receding cloud of dust, he added, in a 
more reckless tone, “ rU bet ten doUars he makes it 
up afore he gits to Dick Day’s ranch, and not turn a 
hair ! ” As no one accepted either of these generous 
propositions, he shook his head and remarked, confi- 
dentially, There ain’t many kin copper the lieuten- 
ant, now, if you yere me ! ” and, disappearing in the 
gloom of the interior of the house. City of Rocks was 
left once more to the hot silence of its fantastic stones. 

The sun was setting behind Bald Butte as the 
Johnstown stage approached the five-mile grade 
which led down to Stoney Creek. The air was grow- 
ing cool. The rabbits, looking hke sage-bushes in 
motion, flitted about in the twihght. A colony of 
prairie-owls, posting themselves at intervals along the 
road, accompanied the intruding vehicle through 
their territory, the head of the line rising as the stage 
drew near and gravely flying down to take station 
at the foot, until, the danger departed, they solemnly 
withdrew. Down the grade the stage went, with 
the driver on the brake and the horses trotting loosely 
in their harness, until, with a final jolt and lurch, 
they fetched up on the bank of Stoney Creek. The 


THE JOHNSTOWN STAGE. 


15 


driver swung himseK off the box, and taking an iron 
pail ont of the boot, proceeded to water his horses. 
The elderly passenger emerged from the stage with 
a tin Clip, and scooping up some of the bright, cold 
water from the noisy, mountain stream, gallantly 
took it to the lady inside. Then, helping himself, lie 
said to the driver, with a laugh : 

I jedge you’ve been making up time. Ye herded 
’em along pretty hvely down thet grade.” 

The lieutenant nodded his head. The position in 
which he found himseff had responsibihties that dis- 
couraged sociability. Going to the other side of the 
stage, he got out his overcoat and put it on. It was 
a garment made of rough, blue cloth, long and volu- 
minous, with a cape that came to the waist. Quietly 
slipping his revolver from its holster, he put it in a 
narrow pocket in the hning of the coat. This pocket, 
apparently made for the purpose, dispensed with the 
ostentatious and cumbrous method of belting the 
pistol on outside. These preparations for the night 
completed, he mounted to his place, and made the 
usual warning inquiry, AU set?” 

If you don’t mind, pard,” said the passenger, I’ll 
ride outside for a ways, and give the lady a chance 
to stretch.” 

‘‘ I don’t mind,” said the lieutenant, and the elderly 
stranger climbed laboriously to his side. The horses’ 
hoofs splashed and the stage wheels crunched their 
way through the stream, while the water fretted and 
foamed noisily about the wet fetlocks and through 
the cleaned spokes. Then hoofs and wheels came 


16 


THE JOHNSTOWN STAGE. 


out on the soft bank, and the stage sped silently 
along the damp bottom land. Dark forms shaped 
themselves into cottonwood trees and alder bushes, 
and dissolved again into the darkness, while the fresh 
odor of the earth and growing things scented the 
cool night air. 

‘‘Have a drink said the passenger, sociably, 
drawing out a bottle. 

“No, thank you,” said the lieutenant, “I don’t 
drink on the box.” 

“ Right you are ! ” said his companion j “ well, here’s 
luck! You hain’t ben long on the line, I take it?” 

“No,” said the heutenant. 

“ I was up in this section a couple o’ years ago,” 
continued the passenger, “and I kinder thought I 
didn’t rec’lect your face. It’s a fine country up yere, 
but it ain’t as fine a country as some I’ve seen. Was 
you ever up around Sin-e-ah-qua-teen ? ” 

No, the lieutenant had never been to Sin-e-ah-qua- 
teen. 

“Well, sir,” continued the passenger, enthusiastic- 
ally, “that’s a fine country, and a mighty curious 
one, tooj the curiousest I ever seen. Me an’ my 
pardner was in there one summer and found inions 
as big as my two fists, and the next day, when we 
struck up along the Pend’Oreille, we got into seven 
foot o’ snow. When we got down into Kootenai, 
along Pack River, they was taking out a heap o’ gold. 
Then we struck St. Mary’s River, and, gentlemen I I 
never did see sech a place for fish. All them rivers 
rise in lakes, and I was told by an old Hudson Bay 


THE JOHNSTOWN STAGE. 


17 


man, that had been with the company nigh on to 
forty year, that they never had found no bottom to 
the lakes. And fish ! Whew ! I throwed in a fly, 
and I could see hundreds o^ them fish, four and five 
pound big, jest race fer it. Me and my pardner 
stayed there a week and had a right pleasant time, 
only fer a little talk that started and ended up in 
some right smart shooting. Six fellows got killed 
and a lot more wounded. They was gamblers mostly, 
and they made it up to go out six agin six, at ten 
paces, with their revolvers. They didn’t keer noways. 
I laid off in the bush and watched them. They started 
out as quiet as I’d go out to cut rails, and stood up 
as straight as so many snipe. Them fellows had 
heaps of sand — I didn’t see ne’er a pistol-barrel shake. 
I could teU by their physiogs that there was a woman 
at the bottom of it. There was some women along 
with the outfit ; and I says to one of them afterwards, 
says I, ^ We’ve got to bury these yere dead men. It 
seems sort o’ rough that so many healthy fellows 
should go under of a sudden, now, don’t it ? ’ And 
she says, Wes; women makes a power o’ trouble 
sometimes.’ And I’m dumed ef she warn’t right. 
Tho’ I’ll agree that there are times when women’s 
powerful handy to have around. You don’t happen 
to be married, do you ? ” 

“ No,” said the lieutenant, beginning to be amused 
and entertained by his loquacious companion, I’m 
not married.” 

The stage had commenced to ascend the gi*ade on 
the other side of Stoney Creek. The road wound up 
2 


18 


THE JOHNSTOWN STAGE. 


through a canon, or gulch, in the bottom of which 
was the dry bed of a winter torrent. It was a long, 
tedious puU to the top of the mesa, and the horses 
had to take their time to it. Notwithstandiag that 
a thin line of light on the brow of a distant moun- 
tain signaled that the moon had risen, it was very 
dark in the canon j so dark, that although the lieu- 
tenant kept peering ahead of the horses, he could see 
but little more than a bend of the winding road 
faintly defined by the denser obscurity on each side 
of it. The passenger himself, notwithstandiag his 
steady flow of talk, seemed affected by the surround- 
ing gloom, and maintained an alert gaze upon the 
side of the road. 

‘‘You see,” he continued, “I had a wife myself 
once, so I know something about women. I picked 
her up in ^Frisco, and jest about six months after I 
lost thirty-five thousand dollars in the Frazer River 
excitement. Then I come up yere, and laid out a 
ranch at Rocky Bar. But my wife, she got sick, and 
I spent all the money I had left in taking her down 
agin, and in doctoring. Well, sir, when she died, 
and I came back yere with the little fellows, I found 
my ranch gone plumb to the devil. Six inches of 
snow on the ground, and the little fellows barefoot, 
and not a dollar in my pocket, and nothing to eat. 
I was blue. I teR you, pard, if ever a man were blue, 
I was that man ! I jest tuk off my hat and throwed 
it on the ground, and looked aU around. But I didn’t 
throw up no sponge. I tuk to sphttin’ rails, and in- 
side of a month I sold ’em to the guv’ment at the 


THE JOHNSTOWN STAGE. 


19 


Sahatlin Agency, and cleaned up a hundred dollars. 
I’m doin’ tol’able well now 5 the country round my 
way’s gittin’ settled up. ’Pears like Oregon’s spittin’ 
all her webfeet into that section. I got my eye on 
some o’ these yere immigrants, and I’U pick up another 
wife some day, a young un about sixteen, that I kin 
larn. I’m purty good on the physiog. I don’t want 
no widows j they’re larnt aU ready to yer hand, but 
they know too damned much.” 

The lieutenant laughed, and spoke to his horses, 
which were shomng a restive disinclination to pro- 
ceed. They were almost at the top of the grade now. 
A clump of scrub-oaks at the head of the canon was 
in sight. The shadows here were very dense by con- 
trast with the moonlight, which lay in the open be- 
yond. It was at these shadows that the horses were 
pricking their ears. The heutenant cracked his whip 
over the unruly animals, but as he did so, he looked 
sharply in the dh’ection of the oaks. Was not some- 
thing moving there ? Or was it the moonhght shad- 
ows playing their usual tricks on highly strung 
nerves? Then he remembered that there was a 
spring under those oaks, and that cattle were always 
around it 5 or, perhaps, a stray deer from the moun- 
tains might have come there to drink. His military 
training and frontier experience made him guard 
against unreasoning alarm. At the same time, the 
station-keeper’s open secret that the paymaster’s funds 
were aboard, flashed across his mind. It would never 
do for him, an army offlcer, to hand down Wells- 
Fargo’s box to the first road-agent who asked for it. 


20 


THE JOHNSTOWN STAGE. 


Professional pride, if naught else, forbade it. He 
said nothing to the man at his side, but under cover 
of his cape he slipped the lines and whip into his left 
hand, and with his right cocked the revolver in liis 
pocket. The elderly passenger, notwithstanding that 
his eyes were also fastened on the clump of oaks, 
seemed quite unsuspicious, and continued to talk. 

I reckon I can git another wife easy enough. I 
know a feUow that come into that section, only a 
little while ago, without a doUar, and he married a 

right purty gal, only sixteen, and he^s older than 

A shrill whistle suddenly startled the silence of the 
night. The passenger on the box, almost without a 
pause, leaned over, and laying one hand on the lines, 
with the other pointed a pistol at the driver’s head, 
and said, but no longer in the accents of an unedu- 
cated person : 

Hold up your hands, lieutenant ! ” At the same 
instant, a man, with a masked face and holding a 
gun, appeared in the middle of the road, and stopped 
the horses. 

The lieutenant turned pale, and stared in amaze- 
ment at the man by his side. • 

It’s no use,” said the elderly passenger, sternly. 

<< We’ve got the drop on you ! Be quick, or I’ll ” 

WeU,” said the lieutenant, defeatedly, ‘‘you have 
got the drop on me, for a fact ! ” And drawing a 
long breath, he slowly raised his arms. But when 
his left elbow was as high as his shoulder, with his 
right hand he pressed the trigger of the revolver in 
his pocket. 


THE JOHNSTOWN STAGE. 


21 


There was a muffled report, a shriek, and a curse, 
followed by another report, then another, and an- 
other, confused and intermingled, the sharp crack of 
the rifle ringing out over the duller noise of the pis- 
tols. When the sounds ceased, the man in the road 
was crawling on his hands and knees toward the 
shadow of the oaks whence he had emerged. There 
was no one on the box but the lieutenant, and he was 
standing erect. The next moment he pitched head 
first over the dash-board on to the off-horse^s back, 
and from there rolled on to the road. It needed but 
this to goad the frightened animals into a stampede, 
and with the lines under their heels, kicking and shy- 
ing, they galloped out over the prairie. 

It is not easy for two horses to run away with a 
Concord coach, especially after coming up Stoney 
Creek grade. And so, after the stage had lumbered 
and lurched at their heels for a half-mile or so, the 
horses came down to a trot, and then to a walk, and 
finally stood still, and gazed around, trembling, and 
ready for a second flight. The moment that the 
vehicle stopped, the veiled face of the lady passenger 
appeared at the door, and her terror-stricken voice 
cried, but almost inaudibly, ^‘My God! what has 
happened ? ” 

Aroused from a troubled sleep by the report of a 
pistol, followed by a maffls shriek, more shots, curses, 
and groans, she had opened her eyes just in time to 
see a heavy body fall over the wheel and on to the 
ground. Then the stage had started forward, the 
wheel going over the thing on the ground mth a sick- 


22 


THE JOHNSTOWN STAGE. 


ening jolt. As the stage bounded on, she had been 
thrown violently to and fro, chnging convulsively to 
her baby, unable to realize what this grisly horror of 
the night might be. With shaking hands, she now 
unfastened the door, and stepping out, found herself 
alone in the awful silence and solitude of the night. 

Hark ! what was that ? She tore her veil from her 
head, and with it came her hat. Great masses of 
black hair f eU down her shoulders, and a white, young 
face shone out in the moonlight, lovely even in its 
terror. The noise was but the piping of an insect, 
but it sounded like a distant shriek. Then the wind 
stirred the dry buffalo grass, and it seemed to the 
panic-stricken woman as though it was the voices of 
men pursuing. Her hair arose, and aU the blood in 
her body raUied in her heart. She would have fainted 
had it not been for the waiting of the dependent baby 
in her arms. What should she do ? Her first im- 
pulse was to run from what might be behind her. 
But her feeble limbs failed at the sight of the wide 
plains and obstructing sage-brush. If she could but 
get upon the stage and drive. She went to the 
horses, and spoke to them. One of them whinnied 
in reply, and that encouraged her. She crept between 
them, talking to them aU the time in trembhng, be- 
seeching tones, and got the lines out from beneath 
their hoofs. Then holding the reins and the baby in 
one arm, she scrambled on to the wheel, and fi’om 
there to the driver^s seat. Everything was so big, 
the hnes, the seat, the brake, her httle feet did not 
reach the dash-board, but rested on some sacks of 


THE JOHNSTOWN STAGE. 


23 


barley that filled the forward boot. In this barley 
she made a nest for the baby. When she was ready 
to start, it was evident that she was not ignorant of 
driving. She held the lines and whip like the ama- 
teur drivers of the New York coaching clubs. The 
horses had been restive during these prolonged prep- 
arations, and they started off freely at her timorous 
word. 

And now the distraction of driving and the sense 
of motion diminished her first ghastly horror, and re- 
placed it with nervous excitement. She had no diffi- 
culty in finding the road ; the horses took her back 
to it. When she reached it, however, she stopped to 
look around, and determine which way led to Pack 
City. It would be frightful to make a mistake, and 
drive back into that awful tragedy. She thought 
with a shudder of what might be there, dead or hv- 
ing, in the moon-lit road or in the blackness of the 
bushes. She wondered what had become of the 
driver. Was it his body that she had seen fall from 
the stage? He must be either dead or wounded; 
perhaps he was only wounded. She would send back 
help instantly from Pack City. But when she de- 
cided on the direction she still hesitated. The rec- 
ollection of that taU, broad-shouldered young driver, 
who had been so kind to her, persisted in obtruding 
itseK on her mind. Perhaps if he was only wounded, 
he might be dying now for want of a little help. 
He had helped her in her need, he had helped her 
baby. In common humanity ought she not to go 
back to his assistance ? Was it not cowardly to take 


24 


THE JOHNSTOWN STAGE. 


the stage and desert him ? Longing to go the other 
way and weeping hysterically, she finally turned the 
reluctant horses toward the canon. 

The moon had lit up the vicinity of the scrub-oaks 
by the time the stage moved slowly back on the scene. 

was silent and deserted. Suddenly the horses 
snorted and shied at a mass of blue cloth lying in the 
road. The woman turned the team to one side and 
drove it against some trees. Then taking her baby 
in her arms, she crept down from her perch, and 
starting at every sound, stole her way to the pros- 
trate form. It was the driver’s face which she un- 
covered, as ghastly white as her own, and smirched 
with blood and dust. Then she slipped her hand 
under his coat and laid it over his heart. It was stiU 
beating. Hurriedly she searched his pockets for the 
fiask that he had used in her service but a few hours 
before ; it was her turn now. She lifted his head and 
poured the raw whiskey generously down his throat. 
He responded with a groan and a gasp that fright- 
ened her anew, and then struggled to a sitting pos- 
ture. Water ! ” he cried, “ for God’s sake, water ! ” 
Then, as she hesitated, he continued faintly, my hat. 
There’s a spring over there,” and lay down with an- 
other groan. 

Her fear was dispelled by the sound of his voice. 
She found the spring, and filling his hat, let him 
drink, and bathed his face and head. He revived 
at this treatment, and, again sitting up, took out his 
knife, and asked her to cut his sleeve off. “ I am los- 
ing blood terribly from my arm,” he explained. She 


THE JOHNSTOWN STAGE. 


25 


bravely but tremblingly did as she was told. When 
sbe bad cut away tbe soaked clotb and bared tbe 
massive arm, be helped ber to improvise a tourniquet 
with bis bandkercbief and a piece of stick, and the 
bleeding was stopped. After a second dose of whis- 
key and water be commenced to improve rapidly. 
Sbe bound another clotb around bis head. “ Tbe fel- 
low with tbe rifle did that,” be said. ‘‘ That is what 
knocked me off the seat. It is only a graze, but it 
was a mighty close call.^^ Then be struggled to bis 
feet, and looking around, saw the stage. ^^Tbey 
didnT get the box, did they 1 ” be cried eagerly. 

I don’t know,” sbe said, taking up ber baby and 
bushing its cries. I don’t think so. The horses ran 
away.” 

The horses ran away ! ” be said, staring wonder- 
ingly for the first time at the pretty, white face that 
was raised to his. “Well, but — why — ^how did the 
stage get back here ? ” 

“ I brought it back,” she replied, lowering her head 
under his persistent gaze. 

“ You brought it back ! ” he exclaimed ; “ yon ! ” 

For a few minutes the wounded heutenant looked 
down at the slight form of the woman who stood be- 
fore him in the moonhght, veiled in her own long 
black hair. Then, as he reahzed what she had done, 
he took off his hat and dropped it in the road, hav- 
ing but one available arm, and offered her his hand. 
She placed hers frankly within it, and he raised the 
little gauntlet respectfully to his bps. “You are 
very brave,” he said with considerable feeling. 


26 


THE JOHNSTOWN STAGE. 


The Johnstown stage was later than ever that night 
when it drew up in front of Casserly’s store, in Pack 
City. Simultaneously with its arrival the drinking 
and gambling saloons and other places of public re- 
sort suddenly became deserted. It was said that a 
woman had driven the stage in, and that a man with 
his head bandaged and his arm in a shng was sitting 
alongside of her, holding a baby. While WeUs-Far- 
go’s box and the mail-sacks were being taken out — 
for Casserly’s store was also the express and post- 
ofS.ce — the story was briefly given to the crowd. 
Then a cheering, pistol-firing procession accom- 
panied the stage down the street to the hotel. Here 
a dozen strong arms fairly lifted the woman from the 
box, while the baby was only rescued from its mob 
of volunteer bearded nurses by the energetic inter- 
vention of the muscular landlady. The heutenant 
himself, after being enthusiastically asked to drink 
in the aggregate liquor enough to have stocked a 
wholesale whiskey store, was put to bed and a mes- 
senger dispatched for the surgeon at the fort. 

Meantime a little party of horsemen swiftly and 
silently rode out of the town in the direction whence 
the stage had come. The next day the lieutenant 
was informed that Whisthng Dick had been found 
dead in the road at the head of Stoney Creek grade. 
A false gray beard had been picked up near the body, 
and was thoughtfully offered to the lieutenant as a 
memento of the man from Rocky Bar. ‘‘ We struck 
the other fellow’s trail,” said his informant, “ in that 
clump of scrub-oak. He was wounded, and there 


THE JOHNSTOWN STAGE. 


27 


wasn’t any trouble in following it. We finally eor- 
raled him down in Stoney Creek. But he was game, 
and played that gun of his for all it was worth be- 
fore we took him in. You never would have guessed, 
now, that it was Jim Gatesby himself, the company’s 
new driver. But that’s who it was, for a fact. I’ve 
heard since that the express folks kind of suspicioned 
him of standing in on that last robbery.” 

One year has passed. Again the silent City of 
Rocks has lost its sharp outhnes in the shimmering 
heat of a July afternoon. On the bench outside of 
the stage-house door, Nate, the station-keeper, is sit- 
ting, reading a month-old newspaper. On the edge 
of the water-trough opposite him, Frank, the helper, 
is mending a horse-coUar. Presently Nate threw 
down the paper and said, ‘‘WeU, rU be durned!” 
Frank looked up inquiringly. Nate, rolling a cig- 
arette from a piece of brown wrapping-paper, con- 
tinued: ‘‘Ye rec’lect the old gen’l’man from the 
States wot went up the hue about two months after 
Lieutenant Calverly laid out Whistling Dick and 
that smarty of a Jim Gatesby ? ” 

Frank nodded his head. He was a man of few 
words. 

“ Ye ree’lect how many questions he asked about 
that little rumpus? Specially ’bout the lady with 
the kid, who showed such a heap o’ sand ? That old 
gen’l’man was her father.” 

“ I knowed that,” said Frank, in a tone that re- 
sented having his interest excited to no purpose. 


28 


THE JOHNSTOWN STAGE. 


Of course ye knowed it ” replied Nate, calmly. 
‘‘ Didn’t he perk up his head like a grass-fed cayuse 
and tell ye so when he brought her down the line 
agin about two weeks afterward? Of course ye 
knowed it. Didn’t he teU every mother’s son aU 
along the hne that it was his daughter ? Why, when 
he went out to the Sahatlin Agency and got her to 
give up teachin’ the Injuns’ kids and go back home 
with him, they teU me that he set up the drinks fer 
the whole durned town. But ye didn’t yere how it 
was that the lady ever come out into this country to 
teach smashes j did ye? No! Well, then, the way 
of it was this. She bucked agin the old man in git- 
tin’ married. She ’lowed her jedgment laid over his, 
but it didn’t pan out worth a durn. Her husband 
was no good, and when he found her father wasn’t 
going to chip in to help ’em along, he went back on 
her. But she didn’t go nosing ’round the old man 
to be tuk back. That warn’t her style. She just got 
an appintment as school-teacher out yere, which was 
’bout as fur away as she could git. But she hadn’t 
no more’n gone when her husband passed in his 
checks in a railroad smash-up. Well, the old man 
didn’t know where she were, till one day he came 
across a newspaper teUin’ ’bout the stage being 
jumped out yere. Then he got onto her trail, and fol- 
lowed her up and tuk her home. P’raps ye rec’lect 
that about two months afterward the heutenant 
went back to the States. Nat’rally. Well, I’m a 
sluice-robber ef him and she ain’t got married ! Yes, 
sir, yere it is in the paper. They say the old man’s 


THE JOHNSTOWN STAGE. 


29 


richer than Blue Gulch, and give ^em a couple of 
hundred thousand to start on. And, wofs more, 
among the weddin^ presents they got was a solid sil- 
ver tea-set with a Ascription on it, as how it was pre- 
sented to Lieutenant and Mrs. George W. Calverly 
by Wells, Fargo & Company’s Express, ^in grateful 
remembrance of their gallant defense of the Johns- 
town stage.’ ” 


COENEE LOTS 


A TALE OF A BOOM. 


Tulita Anita be Lunavarita stood in the gar- 
den, picking lavender. Although the sun shone, 
and the waters of the bay sparkled, and the distant 
Coronados Islands and the hills of Mexico floated in 
a blue haze before her, Tulita had no eyes for the 
pretty picture. Her mind was occupied with weight- 
ier matters. Perhaps she was not even aware that 
she herself made a much prettier picture with her 
girhsh flgure reheved against the white adobe house 
behind her, and her shapely head poised on one side, 
as she critically examined, with her big dark eyes, 
each spray of lavender. She may even have been 
unaware that the young man walking on the other 
side of the road was evidently of this opinion, 
although when he made a misstep into a chuck-hole 
full of dust, through having his eyes on her, Tulita^s 
rosy hps puckered themselves up, and a suspicious 
little movement of her shoulders suggested that she 
was not entirely ignorant of the young man^s mis- 
hap. 


CORNER LOTS. 


31 


But, as has been said, her mind was engaged with 
weightier matters, and scarcely vouchsafing a second 
glance at the retreating figure of the young man, she 
entered the white adobe house. Placing her fragrant 
load upon a table, she took up an old copy of the 
Fashion Guide, which she had left face downward 
when she went to gather lavender, and consulted it 
with a studious frown. Then going to a chest of 
drawers, she procured some odds and ends of ribbons, 
and, seating herseK with a business-like air, pro- 
ceeded, with many references to the instructions, 
to braid the sprigs of lavender together with the 
ribbons. 

“ These useful as well as ornamental little articles,’^ 
the book said, at the end of its disquisition, ‘‘are 
rapidly becoming indispensable in every household. 
In fact, we know of several young ladies who derive 
a comfoi-table income from the manufacture and 
sale of lavender-sticks.^^ 

“ I don’t know,” said Tulita, to herself, as she re- 
garded her first effort disparagingly, “ it seems to me 
that anybody would be a fool to buy that. But, 
there,” she continued, more hopefully, “you never 
can teH about these Americans.” 

And, proceeding with the work, she soon exhausted 
her lavender and ribbons, and had instead a neat 
httle pile of “ lavender-sticks.” 

“ Madre de Dios ! ” said Tulita, as with her chin on 
her hand she gazed at the result of her labors, “ if 
that httle mother of mine was to catch me at this, 
how quickly those things would go out the window,” 


32 


CORNER LOTS. 


and she laughed softly at the thought. “ Although,” 
she continued, ‘‘if she can do sewing for money, 
why should not I also work ? At any rate, I must 
have some shoes, that is the truth.” And thrusting 
her foot out, she leaned over the table to look at it. 
It was a dainty, slender foot, with an arched instep, 
but the shoe upon it was unmistakably, hopelessly rag- 
ged. “ Ah ! go hide yourselt,” said Tulita, severely j 
“ you make me ashamed.” 

Then sinking back on her chair, she rested her 
chin on her hand once more, and thought : “ Ah, if 
only I could make enough to buy a pair of shoes.” 
And after awhile a tear roUed down her cheek and 
feu on the lavender-sticks. 

But at this moment the chck of the latch on the 
garden-gate made Tulita spring to her feet. With a 
quick movement she swept the lavender-sticks into 
a drawer, and when the new-comer entered the room, 
Tulita was before the mirror singing to herself, while 
she braided her long hair, which had faUen as sud- 
denly as a southern night. 

“ Is it thou, madre ? ” she said. 

“Yes, it is I — aU that is left of me,” said the lady 
who had entered, a woman whose stiU handsome 
face was hned by gidef and trouble. “Sainted 
Mother ! but it is warm in the sun,” she continued, 
fanning herself with that indolent, graceful sweep 
of the wrist pecuhar to the women of the south. 
Then, pausing a moment, she elevated her head, and 
said : “ What is that odor in the house, like sage- 
brush ? ” 


CORNER LOTS. 


33 


“ Perhaps it is this bit of lavender/' said Tnlita, 
hiding her guilty face beliind her hair. 

‘‘Paugh!" said her mother. ‘‘It is too strong. 
Throw it away." 

And as she obeyed, Tulita's heart went down into 
her ragged boots at this unexpected disparagement 
of the odor of lavender. “ Sage-brush, indeed." It 
disheartened her so that the idea of attempting to 
“ derive a comfortable income from the manufacture 
and sale of lavender-sticks " was at once dismissed 
in scorn. Even the possibility of new shoes grew 
very faint. 

But with the next morning's sun the hope and 
high spirits of youth returned, and when Tuhta 
started to walk in to San Diego to make some 
purchases for her mother, the lavender-sticks were 
hidden beneath her shabby little black mantle. Last 
night, after she had gone to bed, she had lain awake 
for at least an hour deciding where to offer them for 
sale. Senna & Squills’s drug-store was the favored 
place. It was on the principal street, and had fine 
large windows full of fancy goods. It would be a 
very simple matter to walk in and ask them to seU 
the sticks for her. Of course, she would pay them 
something for their trouble. Then, too, she had 
heard that very morning that there were an unusual 
number of Eastern tourists in town, and she hurried 
her steps so as not to lose any chances. 

But when Tuhta came in sight of Senna & Squills’s 
estabhshment, her enthusiasm ebbed. She chided 
herself for walking so rapidly and getting heated 


34 


CORNER LOTS. 


and ont of breath. What would the people in the 
store think of her? Slower and slower grew her 
pace, until, arriving in front of her destination, she 
stopped and looked at the display of fancy goods in 
the window. The comparison was not favorable to 
her lavender-sticks. 

Perhaps, after all,” thought Tulita, “ the idea of 
anybody wanting to buy such things is absurd.” 
Suppose Senna & Squills should laugh at her ! She 
concluded to think about it a little more, and walked 
on. 

The further Tnlita went, however, the more her 
courage returned, until, telling herself she was be- 
having ridiculously, she resolutely retraced her steps 
until the store was once more reached. But again 
she paused irresolutely before the window. Then 
she crossed the street to look in the window of a 
book-store that might perhaps be better adapted to 
her purpose. Deciding against the book-store, she 
returned to the drug-store. Then the dreadful 
thought occurred to her that her movements must be 
attracting attention. The poheeman on the corner 
had certainly looked at her very hard. What if he 
should speak to her! This idea was so appalling 
that Tulita hurriedly walked on down the street, 
without looking to the right or left. It was not 
until she had turned the first corner she came to 
that she recovered her equanimity. Then scolding 
lierseK severely for this panic, she continued on 
slowly around the block, until once more she found 
herself in front of Senna & Squihs^s establishment. 


CORNER LOTS. 


35 


Bracing up her treacherous courage with a great 
eifort, she walked in. 

One of the clerks, observing the hesitation of a 
young and pretty customer, advanced toward her 
and, in his suavest manner, said : What can I do 
for you to-day, miss ? 

Is — a — is Mr. Senna in ? faltered Tulita. 

“ Mr. Senna, miss ! exclaimed the young man, 
with a look of surprise, Mr. Senna is dead.” 

“ Oh,” murmured Tulita, confusedly, “ I am very 
sorry.” 

And, with burning cheeks, she found herself in 
the street once more. How far or where she walked 
after that, Tulita was never quite sure. When her 
thoughts were sufficiently collected, she discovered 
that she was in front of one of the principal hotels. 
She saw a news-stand near the main entrance. On 
the impulse of the moment, she stopped, and opening 
her bundle of lavender-sticks, she showed them to 
the proprietor, and asked him if he would try to sell 
them for her. He was an elderly man, and while 
not enthusiastic over the prospects of a brisk busi- 
ness in lavender-sticks, he was very kind to the girl, 
and readily agreed to do all in his power to advance 
her little venture. 

Rid of her bundle of lavender, which she had be- 
gun to hate, Tulita turned her steps homeward in 
high spirits. How easy it had been to arrange the 
matter, and what a httle fool she was to have wor- 
ried herself so. After ah, though, it was much 
better that she had not left the sticks with Senna & 


36 


CORNER LOTS. 


Squills. This news-stand was by far the best place, 
being right in the hotel, where the Eastern tourists 
would be STU’e to see them. And Tulita fell to won- 
dering whether the man would sell any that day, 
and how many, and how long it would be before 
they were ail sold. And when she, passed a shoe- 
store, she stopped and looked at the display in the 
window to see what kind of shoes she should buy — 
although, to be sure, the variety of shoes to be had 
for three dollars was not great. 

Meantime the news-dealer had sold all of Tulita^s 
lavender-sticks. Not that they had filled one of the 
public^s long-felt wants, for they had all been bought 
by One person, that person being Mr. Brown, of 
Philadelphia. Mr. Brown, while leaning idly against 
the news-stand, had seen Tulita come up, and on 
getting sight of her face, had said to himself in sur- 
prise, “ By Jove ! That is the pretty girl I sav/ in 
the garden, yesterday afternoon.’^ And, although 
he pohtely moved away out of hearing of the con- 
versation, he furtively watched the pretty girl, and 
had no difficulty in understanding the nature of her 
transaction with the old news-dealer. Hard up, of 
course,” said Mr. Bro’v^m sympathetically. Then as 
Tulita tripped away he returned to his lounging- 
place by the news-stand, and picking up one of the 
lavender-sticks with an air of idle curiosity, asked 
what they were for. 

They are made of lavender,” replied the dealer, 
“ and you put them in the bureau drawer to make 
your clothes smell nice j at any rate, that is what the 


CORNER LOTS. 


37 


young lady who left them here, says. I never saw 
any, myself, before. I guess I’ll seU ’em for souvenirs 
of Southern California j they are made by a native 
Californian, and it will be a change on horned toads.” 

“That is a good idea,” said Mr. Brown, calmly. 
“ In fact, I have an aunt at home who would not hke 
horned toads, so I will take some of these. How 
many have you got? A dozen? Well, you can let 
me have the lot.” 

As the pleased dealer was wrapping up ]\Ir. Brown’s 
purchase, that gentleman flipped the ash from his 
cigar, and said, after a pause, “ What do you mean 
by ‘ native Cahfornian ? ’ Is not every one born in 
California a native ? ” 

“ WeU, yes,” said the dealer, with patient forbear- 
ance for the ignorance of this “tender-foot,” who 
was so good a customer, “ I suppose they are. But 
when we say native Californian we mean the Spanish 
or Mexican people who lived here when the country 
belonged to the greasers. Have you ever read ^ Two 
Years Before the Mast,’ by Mr. Dana? If you 
haven’t, I have got a copy here, I would like to seU 
you. Mr. Dana was in San Diego back in the 
tliirties. There was not much here then except a 
few adobe houses in Old Town and the Mission, but 
he gives you a pretty good idea of the native Cali- 
fornian. Some of them came originaUy from Spain, 
and had grants of land from the king so big that 
they could ride for days as the crow flies and not 
leave theii* ranches. They lived like lords that you 
read about, with a hundred or so Indians to herd 


38 


CORNER LOTS. 


their cattle, and every one that happened along was 
welcome to the best. Well, as I was saying, when 
the Americans commenced coming in here the native 
Californians began losing their land. They found 
it necessary to have money to keep up mth the pro- 
cession, and the most of their ranches got pretty well 
plastered, so that, one way or another, the big grants 
got broke up, and so did the natives. I guess there 
are mighty few of them now that could pan out 
anything but law-suits. I shouldn’t wonder now if 
the father of that young lady once owned a million 
or so of acres ; you can’t tell. But, you bet, if he 
had any of it left, now that the boom has struck the 
town, she wouldn’t be making those things,” touch- 
ing Mr. Brown’s parcel. ‘‘Not” he added hastily, 
“ but what they are a first-class article in their way. 
In fact, I must get her to make some more ; I guess 
they’ll take pretty well. You don’t want to buy Mr. 
Dana’s book? WeU, so long.” 

#**##** 
Shoving the bundle of lavender into the pocket of 
the hght overcoat that hung across his arm, Mr. 
Brown left the hotel, and with the air of a man who 
has notliing to do and aU the day before lum, he 
walked along the streets. Finally he entered a tall, 
frame building bearing the legend “ Furnished 
Rooms to Let.” Ascending to the top floor, he 
opened the door of what proved to be a small apart- 
ment well filled with a bed and bed-lounge, both 
presenting evidence of recent use. In a corner 
before' a small looking-glass stood a well-dressed man 


CORNER LOTS. 


39 


of about tliirty years of age, carefully arranging a 
four-in-hand tie. He turned as Mr. Brown entered, 
and looked at him expectantly, but immediately 
resumed his occupation. 

Well, old man,” he said, ‘^anything new?” 

‘‘No,” said Mr. Browm, throwing his overcoat on 
the bed. The bundle of lavender dropped out of the 
pocket, and ]Mr. Brown, picking it up, shied it after 
the coat. 

“ What is that ? ” said the gentleman at the look- 
ing-glass — “ manuscript ? ” 

“ No,” said Mr. Brown, with a slight look of embar- 
rassment ; “ something I got at the hotel. Why the 
devil hasn’t that Chinaman made the beds up ? ” he 
continued impatiently. “ It is nearly twelve o’clock.” 
And going to the door, Mr. Brown called out in no 
gentle tones, “ Here, you ! Sing Lee ! Sing Lee ! ” 

“ My dear fellow,” exclaimed his companion, with 
an affectation of terror, “ for Heaven’s sake, don’t do 
that ! You wHL stir up the old woman. I spent a 
whole hour this morning persuading her to be 
quiet for another week.” And drawing Brown back 
into the room, he tip- toed into the entry, and cau- 
tiously peered over the banisters. Then coming 
back, he closed the door softly, and heaved a sigh of 
relief. 

Brown’s puzzled expression changed to a smile. 
“ Oh,” he said, “ I forgot about the rent. But, I say, 
Benton, we can’t owe her very much for this little 
coop ; can’t you pay her enough to let me kick that 
Chinaman into some idea of decency ? ” 


40 


CORNER LOTS. 


“ Can’t be done, my dear boy,” said bis companion. 
“ Yon must learn to deny yourself these luxuries.” 

Talking of denial,” said Brown, I am frightfully 
hungiy. Have you had your breakfast ? ” 

“This don’t happen to be breakfast day,” said 
Benton, “ this is lunch day ; but we will have it early 
— in faet, I was only waiting for you to come in. 
We dined off the last of my watch last night, you 
know, so as not to break that five-doUar piece of 
yom^s.” 

At this Brown’s face changed, and his eyes sought 
Tulita’s lavender-sticks, which lay upon the unmade 
bed. “ I’ll teU you what it is, Tom,” he said, finally, 
looking up at his friend comically ; “ you ought to 
break my neck.” 

“ Why ? ” said Mr. Benton. 

“ Simply because I am not to be trusted alone. I 
threw away three dollars of that money this morn- 
ing. You see,” he continued, more earnestly, “I 
never had an experience of this sort before, and 
I keep forgetting.” 

“ Of course,” said Benton, sympathetically. “ We 
can’t expect a leopard to change his spots in an 
instant.” 

“Here,” continued Brown, taking out his purse, 
“ you take charge of the rest of this.” 

“No, I’ll be hanged if I do,” replied Benton. 
“ You forget our agreement, in San Francisco, after 
that unlucky stock-deal into which I got you ” 

“ And in which you lost fifty thousand to my five,” 
interrupted Brown. 


CORNER LOTS. 


41 


“You forget our agreement/^ continued Benton, 
without heeding this remark, “ that we were to pool 
our resources, and share equally gains and losses, 
from a two-bit piece to a hundred thousand dollars.” 

“A hundred thousand dollars,” repeated Brown, 
meditatively. 

“ That is nothing,” said Benton ; “ I have made as 
much as that before now.” 

“ In stocks, yes,” said Brown, “ but they have no 
stocks here.” 

“ No,” said Benton, “ but they have something a 
hundred times better. You mark my word, there is 
going to be one of the biggest booms right here that 
the world has ever seen. Kansas City won’t be a 
cii’cumstance to it. Why, the chmate alone ” 

“ Oh, come down ! ” interrupted Brown, irrever- 
ently. 

Benton laughed and said, “ Seriously, Frank, if we 
only can manage to get hold of some land our foii}- 
une is made. I am as sure of that as that at present 
we are dead broke. If that wealthy father of yours, 
back in the respectable village of Philadelphia, only 
knew what a glorious chance there was to make a 
million or so right here ” and Mr. Benton sighed. 

“ WeU, he won’t know through me,” replied Brown. 
“ If the worst comes I can always drive a team, but 
I won’t ask liini for help.” 

“ I t hink you are wrong, old man,” said Benton. 
“ Not on account of the money, but on general prin- 
ciples. However, we will make our stake just the 
same. And now about lunch 5 I am starved.” 


42 


CORNER LOTS. 


‘‘I think I ought to be made to eat the laven- 
der,” said Brovm, looking ruefully at his purchase, 
as he disclosed the contents of the bimdle to his 
friend. “There, how is that for a three-dollar in- 
vestment ? ” 

“ But what is it ? ” said Benton, picking up one of 
the lavender-sticks, and looking at it suspiciously. 
“Dynamite? PhizWt! For the old woman?” 
with an expressive reference to the region occupied 
by the landlady. 

“ No, you old anarchist,” replied Brown. Then, in 
a fine lady’s voice, he said, “’Tis sweet lavender. 
Placed in your bureau drawer, it will give a pleasing 
odor to your linen. That’s right,” he continued in 
his own voice, “ laugh ! I was going to give you one. 
I sha’n’t now.” 

“Did they throw a bureau in?” said Benton; 
“ otherwise, it is not much use to us.” 

“ Use ! ” said Brown, scornfully ; “ think of a man 
who has to go without his breakfast buying three 
dollars’ worth of lavender 1 ” 

“ Don’t make me laugh any more,” said Benton ; 
it is weakening, and we can’t afford it. Tell me, 
how did you come to buy those things ? ” 

Whereupon, Mr. Brown narrated the story of his 
purchase. 

“Young,” said Benton, at its conclusion, “and 
pretty ” 

“ I did not say so,” interposed BroTO. 

“It was not necessary,” replied his friend; “we 
must get acquainted with her.” 


CORNER LOTS. 


43 


said Brown, in not altogether pleased 

snfprise. 

Because she may have friends among the natives 
here, who have land that we can handle for them. 
Land, my dear boy, land — that is what we want. 
You don’t seem to fancy the idea,” continued Benton, 
as Brovm remained silent j but we cannot afford 
to be romantic just now. It is absolutely necessary 
to use every chance. You have made a three-doUar 
investment, and I don’t propose to throw it away. 
I am superstitious in money matters, you know, and 
I have a fancy that this generous act of yours may 
bring us luck. Three dollars’ worth of bread on the 
waters, as it were. I shall make a point of getting 
acquainted with your friend, and I should like to 
have you stand in with me. If you would rather 

not, why, of course ” 

But Mr. Brown said he would stand in,” only, 
be it understood, for the sole purpose of keeping 
Mr. Benton’s business proclivities within decent 
bounds. 

*#*##** 
TuHta sat upon the door-step of the white adobe 
house, looking out upon the shining waters of the 
bay The sun was sinking into the Pacific behind 
Point Loma, and the soft air was full of a golden 
haze. The Coronados Islands and the distant hiUs of 
Mexico were outlined in a purple silhouette against 
the evening sky, and everything was stdl and peace- 
ful, everything except Tuhta’s poor little heart. Her 
mother had not been very well for the last two or 


44 


CORNER LOTS. 


three days, and the death of her father was recent 
enough to cause the shghtest illness to fiU Tuhta 
with alarmed foreboding. Then they were so lonely, 
she and her mother, with no one to care for them, 
and they were so poor j it was ah very forlorn, and 
they had just been crying over it together, they two, 
in the twilight. And now, 'vvith that vague inter- 
est which the mind, after great emotion, feels in tri- 
fling matters, Tuhta sat on the door-step and idly 
watched the sea-guUs fluttering and squabbhng over 
some scraps thrown from a passing steamer, and 
then her eyes f oho wed a jack-rabbit which loped 
across the road and disappeared in the sage-brush ; 
then she saw two men come along, and stop at the 
house next to hers. This latter incident rather 
aroused her curiosity, because, while sea-gulls and 
jack-rabbits were plentiful enough in that neighbor- 
hood, gentlemen were not, and these appeared to be 
gentlemen. Evidently, from their gestures, they 
were inquiring for some one ; but what was her sur- 
prise when these gentlemen left the other house, and, 
coming directly to her gai-den-gate, opened it, and 
approached her. 

Is this where Mrs. Lunavarita lives ? ” said the 
elder of the two gentlemen, as they both politely 
removed their hats. 

Kestraining an impulse to take refuge in the house, 
Tuhta replied that it was. 

‘‘ If it win not disturb her,” continued the gentle- 
man, “ may we see her for a moment ? 

At this juncture the sehora herself, hearing the 


CORNER LOTS. 


45 


voices, came to the door, and answered by bidding 
them enter. 

I hope that we are not intruding,’^ continued the 
stranger, who did the talking ; “ my name is Benton, 
and this is my friend, Mr. Brown.^^ 

The senora bowed in a stately way. 

“ My friend here,” continued Mr. Benton, bought 
some lavender-sticks at the Blank Hotel, tliis morn- 
ing, which we understand were made by you.” 

‘‘Lavender-sticks?” repeated the senora slowly, 
shaking her head ; “ I do not know what that is that 
you call lavender-sticks. Tulita,” she continued, 
turning to her daughter, “de que esta JiaUando el 
Caballero f Que son palitos de lavandrila, hija mia, 
sabes tu f ” 

Yes, Tulita knew. At the sound of the familiar 
words her face flushed hotly, and then grew very 
pale. What was the matter? Had she offended 
some law in regard to the sale of lavender-sticks, and 
were these sheriffs come to arrest her? Or — ^more 
dreadful thought — were hers so badly made that the 
people 'who had bought them came to make com- 
plaint to her mother ? Then she heard the gentlemen 
say something about souvenirs of California, aunts 
in the East, all of the lavender-sticks at the hotel 
being sold, and taking the liberty of coming to Mrs. 
Lunavarita herself to see if she would make him a 
dozen more. All of her lavender-sticks sold ! Could 
it be possible ? Tulita’s heart gave a happy bound, 
and in the excitement of the moment she turned to 
her be'wildered mother and poured forth her confes- 


46 


CORNER LOTS. 


sion, in what Mr. Brown afterward declared was the 
most musical Spanish he had ever heard in his life. 
This was followed by quick, sharp questions from 
the mother, and pleading, faltering answers from the 
girl, and then what seemed a torrent of reproach 
and protest fell from the lips of the sehora. 

“ It seems,” said Mr. Benton, in a low tone to his 
friend, that the old lady was not posted.” 

“No, confound you,” indignantly whispered Mr. 
Brown, “you have let the little girl in for a nice 
scolding.” 

Then the sehora Lunavarita, with flushed face and 
glistening eyes, turned to the two gentlemen and 
said, with dignity and pathos : 

“ Sehores, I have to make the apology to you. It 
is my daughter that makes these — ^these ” 

“ Lavender-sticks,” suggested Benton pleasantly. 

“ These lavender-sticks, and I did not know. She 
is a young lady, and I would not have her do work. 
Sainted Mother ! it is bad enough for me, who am 
old. And I did not know, you understand? Not 
that my daughter ever does anything without telling 
me,” she added, hastily ; “ no, sehor, never ! She has 
no secrets from her mother. But her father is dead 
and we are poor.” Here the senora’s voice faltered 
a httle, and one of the tears that had been gathering 
in her eyes rolled slowly down her face. “We are 
poor, and I have to work, and my daughter, she 
loves me, and she says it makes her sad to see me 
sew, sew, all the time sew, and she do nothing, and 
so she makes these things to help her poor mother. 


CORNER LOTS. 


47 


That is the way of it, sehor. She is a good daughter, 
and — and — ” here the sehora’s feeling overcame her, 
and, turning to Tulita, who had stolen to her side, 
with a httle gesture of surrender she allowed her 
tears to flow unrestrained. 

Quickly putting her arms around her mother’s 
neck, Tulita drew her head down upon her shoulder, 
and spoke to her soothingly in Spanish. Then, turn- 
ing gravely, almost deflantly, to the young men, she 
said : My mother has not been very well for the 
last few days, sehores, and to-night she is not her- 
self. You will excuse her.” 

At this both of the gentlemen arose, and Mr. 
Brown, speaking for the first time, said : We ai‘e 
very sorry, indeed we are. We had no idea that — 
that your mother was not well. In fact, I hope that 
you wiU pardon us for taking the hberty of calling 
on you about so trifling a matter.” 

Now, although Mr. Brown’s apology was not very 
eloquent, there was a sincerity and sympathetic feel- 
ing in the young man’s voice that made its way to 
the hearts of both of the women. The sehora raised 
her head, and, drying her eyes, said, with smihng 
simpHcity : 

Ah, sehor, do not feel distressed because I cry a 
little. I often cry ; I am not very strong since my 
husband died. But it is nothing.” 

Tuhta meanwhile, having arisen, had gone to the 
door, in the evident expectation of the immediate 
departure of her unexpected guests. In fact, Mr. 
Brown himself stood, hat in hand, ready to go, but 


48 


CORNER LOTS. 


Mr. Benton was lingering to make some reply to the 
sehora^s words. Then Mr. Brown, on the impulse of 
the moment, said to the girl, who stood near him, 
“You are not annoyed or angry with me — with us, I 
mean, for coming f ” 

“Why should I he?^^ replied Tulita, with dignity. 
“ It is of no consequence.” 

“ May I hope, then, that you will make the laven- 
der-sticks for me ? I will call for them, of course,” 
said Mr. Brown. 

“I will make some more for sale at the news- 
stand,” replied Tuhta ; “ no doubt you can get them 
there.” 

Having administered this little cut, Tulita turned 
her big dark eyes severely upon the still tarrying Mr. 
Benton. Brown, convinced now that their visit had 
displeased the young lady, also turned and glared at 
the cause of his discomfiture. What was their sur- 
prise to find that Mr. Benton had reseated himself, 
and that he and the sefiora had apparently launched 
into an extended conversation. 

“Are you coming, Benton?” said Brown, impa- 
tiently. 

“ In a minute, my dear fellow,” replied his friend ; 
“ I have just discovered that Mrs. Lunavarita and I 
have a whole lot of mutual friends up in San Fran- 
cisco.” 

And the senora, herself, turning to her daughter, 
confirmed this in. quite an animated way, repeat- 
ing several names, evidently those of the friends re- 
ferred to. 


CORNER LOTS. 


49 


Then Mr. Brown’s eyes sought Tuhta’s with such 
solemn protest that she, in her turn, could not help 
smihng. Common pohteness forced her to say, 
‘^Will you not sit down!” But no, Mr. Brown 
would not sit down ; he preferred to do penance 
standing. Then he looked so unhappy, casting 
gloomy glances at his friend, which that gentleman 
ignored, that Tuhta finally began to feel a little pity 
for the young man. Perhaps she had been too 
severe. After all, he was very evidently a gentleman, 
and was not bad-looking, and he had the good taste 
to appreciate her lavender-sticks. And so, after a 
httle hesitation, she ventured to ask him if he was a 
stranger in San Diego. She almost laughed again 
to see how grateful he looked for this bit of conde- 
scension. In fact, this young man was so modest 
and courteous, so different from his companion, for 
instance, it was really a pleasure to encoimage him a 
httle. Then gradually Mr. Brown ceased to cast 
remonstrative glances at his friend, and, presently, 
when he saw that he was keepiug Miss Lunavarita 
standing, he consented to sit down. 

It was growing dark when Mr. Brown again arose 
to his feet, and exclaimed, peremptorily, ‘‘Come, 
Benton, we must go ! I don’t know what Mrs. 
Lunavarita and her daughter will think of us.” 

Now, even if Mrs. Lunavarita’s daughter had 
cared to give expression to her thoughts just then, 
she was the next moment rendered speecliless by her 
mother’s behavior. Giving Mr. Benton her hand as 
he bade her good-night, the senora said, in a pleased 
4 


50 


CORNER LOTS. 


and most vivacious manner, Good-night, sehor ; I 
shall look for you to-morrow at ten o^clock, and then 
we will take our little ride.^^ 

After leaving the house, Mr. Benton and Mr. 
Brown plodded along through the dusk and dust in 
silence for some minutes. Then Mr. Benton said, 
“Women are strange creatures.” To which trite 
remark his companion made no reply. But, having 
arrived at the end of his reflections, and broken the 
silence, Mr. Benton continued : “ Do you remember 
my telling you, Frank, that I had a sort of supersti- 
tion that your three-doUar investment was going to 
bring us luckr^ And as Brown assented, with a 
nod of his head, “Well, I think it has, though I had 
no idea, when I inquired the name of your friends, 
of the people next door, that the luck was all ready, 
laid away in lavender, as it were, waiting for us to 
come and get it. Mrs. Lunavarita has two or three 
hundred acres of land over on the sea-shore. What 
do you think of that? It is the same old story. 
They once owned leagues, and this is all they have 
left, and they have got that, as Mrs. Lunavarita says, 
because it is not worth anything, although she is 
wrong there. At any rate, she is holding it for her 
daughter, hoping that it may be worth something 
some day. It is aU they have got. Two thousand 
dollars is the highest figure she has thought of. If 
it is anything like she describes it, and if she will let 
me handle it, I propose to make it worth a hundred 
thousand dollars in the next year.” 

“Look here, Tom,” said Brown, impulsively, “if 


CORNER LOTS. 


51 


you do get hold of this thing, you will do the best 
you can by Mrs. Lunavarita, won’t you?” 

“ My dear fellow,” said Mr. Benton in a rather cold 
tone, is it necessary to ask me that ? I am not a 
devourer of widows and orphans.” 

^‘Oh, hang it, don’t be touchy,” said Brown. 
“You know I did not mean anything like that. 
Only these two women are so lonely, and innocent, 
and plucky, they reaUy have made quite an impres- 
sion on me.” 

“ I noticed that one of them seemed to,” rephcd 
Mr. Benton, dryly, “ but I did not observe the other 
had. As for the proposition, if everything turns 
out as I expect, it was a lucky day for Mrs. Luna- 
varita when I knocked at her door. And now let us 
quit work for the day, and go and have a respectable 
dinner as a send-off for the new firm of Benton & 
Brown, real-estate dealers.” 

******* 

A year and a half have elapsed. It is Christmas 
Eve. Once more TuHta is watching the sun set, but 
this time from another home, where Point Loma 
does not intervene its huge bulk, where she can see 
the golden disk shpping down between the blue of 
the Pacific and the blue of the evening sky, until the 
last burnished tip disappears. Then the soft warm 
air is filled with rich color as the after-glow stains 
sky and water with its hues. Turning away, Tuhta 
proceeds with her occupation of gathering roses 
which this celestial pageant had interrupted, while 
the air grows heavy with their perfume. Behind 


52 


CORNER LOTS. 


Tulita is a large, so-called ‘‘Queen Anne’^ cottage, 
and on the veranda sits her mother, lazily rocking 
and fanning herself. Next to the sen ora sits an 
elderly gentleman, and on the back of the elderly 
gentleman’s chair leans Mr. Brown, of Philadelphia. 
As Tulita passes the side of the porch, she dexter- 
ously. tosses a rose to the elderly gentleman, and 
laughs, as he successfully catches it, and presses it 
to his lips with a gaUant bow. 

“Well, well, weU,” he says, breaking the silence, 
“ imagine being out-of-door without a wrap, gather- 
ing roses on Christmas Eve. And you really mean 
to teU me, Frank, that this place has been set out 
only a year f ” 

“Yes, sir,” replied the young man, “just about. 
You see, father, in this country, water is everything. 
If you can only get plenty of water, things grow like 
magic. I remember that is what worried us most 
when we put Lunavarita town-lots on the market, 
water was the great question, and we were afraid we 
would have to pipe it from town. But as soon as 
we struck that artesian weU we were fixed. The 
property doubled in value in twenty-four hours, and 
we sold enough lots the first week to pay for laying 
out the town, putting down water and sewer-pipes, 
and subsidizing a street- car line to run a motor out 
here. After that the people used to come and stand 
in hne aU day long at our office waiting to buy lots. 
We raised the price rehgiously on the first of each 
month, and now you can’t buy a lot in Lunavarita 
for less than three hundred doUars. Water is king 


CORNER LOTS. 


53 


in California. There is a company formed to flume 
it down from the mountains about sixty miles from 
here j it is a good scheme, too.” 

^^It must cost a great deal,” said the elder Mr. 
Brown, doubtfully. 

Oh, no,” said his son, a million ought to do it.” 

‘‘ A mere trifle,” said the old gentleman, mimicking 
Frank’s airy tone. Upon my soul,” he continued, 
with sudden energy, if I stay here much longer I 
shall be as stark, staring mad as aU the rest of you 
are.” 

“You don’t call it by its right name,” said Frank, 
laughing, “it is enterprise. Why, the harbor alone 
is ” 

“ There ! there ! ” exclaimed his father hastily, 
“ don’t get started now. I have heard aU about the 
harbor.” 

“ And the glorious climate ? ” 

“Yes,” said Mr. Brown emphatically, “and the 
chmate, too.” 

“ I am afraid you don’t appreciate it, though,” said 
his son, reproachfully. “Just think of the Boston 
east wind to-night, and compare it with this air, 
where you can feel your lungs grow. Why, I believe 
I have sprouted an extra one myself since I have 
been here.” 

“ I believe that you have, my dear boy,” said the 
old gentleman, chuckling; “from the amount of 
talking that you do, I beheve that you have. Eh, 
sehora, I rather think I got him there? Ha! ha! 
ha ! ” 


54 


CORNEE LOTS. 


At this moment a carriage was seen coming up the 
lull toward the house. 

All ! ” cried Tulita, here comes Aladdin.^^ 

The carriage stopped, and Benton descended. 
Tulita, waving the bunch, of roses before his face, 
bade him good-evening. 

‘‘Well, sir,” said the elder Mr. Brown, “and how 
many towns have you built to-day ? ” 

“Not many,” said Benton, laughing. Then draw- 
ing from his coat-pocket a package of papers, he 
banded it to Mr. Brown, saying: “Here are your 
deeds and abstracts ; they are all right.” 

“ What ! ” shouted Frank. “ Father, have you ” — 
but here he burst out laughing. “ Father,” he con- 
tinued, regaining his gravity, “ father, look me in the 
eye. Is it possible that you — ^you, a conservative 
merchant of Philadelphia — ^have, at the present 
ruinous prices, been indulging in wild, insane spec- 
ulation, that you ” 

“There, there. Master Frank,” said his father, 
joining in the laughter, “ we all know that you have 
sprouted an extra lung.” 

“Don’t mind him, Mr. Brown,” said Benton. 
“ You have got a bargain. As soon as you get your 
vines well under way, one year’s crop of raisin-grapes 
will pay for it.” 

“ Oh, of course, of course,” said the old gentleman, 
“it is a bargain. They all are. Though, to my 
mind,” he continued, putting his arm around Tulita, 
and drawing her to his side, “ this is the best bai*- 
gain ever got in Southern Cahfornia.” 


CORNER LOTS. 


55 


“ Yes,” said his son, looking at his wife proudly, 
and to think that I only had to put up three dollars 
for the option.” 

Men are so conceited,” said Tnhta, confidingly to 
her father-in-law ; “ that w^as not the way of it at all. 
It was I who gave a dozen lavender-sticks for a hus- 
band and the town of Lunavarita.” 


GENTLEMAN JACK. 


He joined our freighting out-fit' in Boise City one 
summer, Vay back in the sixties, long ’bout the time 
o’ the Salmon River strike. Jarrick, or some such 
name he give, which the boys razzeed into Jack. 
He was a stranger in them parts, but he soon showed 
up fer a ratthn’ good freighter. It’s surprisin’ how 
quick you kin size a man up on the road. A year’s 
loafin’ ’round the settlements won’t larn you as much 
that way as a day’s freightin’, ’specially such freightin’ 
as that between Boise City an’ Tin Cup. It’s a purty 
rough stretch o’ country that, fer a fact, more per- 
tic’lar over Crazy Hoss Mountain. The road goes 
a-creepin’ an’ a-snakin’ through bush an’ timber, 
chmbin’ straight up rocky places, an’ suddenly cornin’ 
out on the edge o’ precipices in a stealthy, dare-devil 
sort o’ way that keeps ’mindin’ you o’ the fact that 
it’s only an old Injun trail, after all, that’s been kind 
o’ half civilized into a road. An’ lonely ! ’Pears to 
me like them mountains is al’ays a* listenin’ fer some- 
thin’, so that when a feller’s aU by himself the first 
thing he knows he finds he’s got his head perked up 
hke a grass-fed cayuse, and is a- waitin’ an’ a-hsten- 


GENTLEMAN JACK. 


57 


in’, too. Then maybe he’ll year the wood doves 
a-moiu'nin’, an’ the wind singin’ in the tops o’ the 
pines, an’ the jays scoldin’, an’ once in a while a fir 
cone ’ll drop, or a rotten branch ’U crack off in the 
forest, or a deer ’h beller down in the canon j an’ if 
he’U wait long enough he’U year some sounds that 
he won’t keer to gamble on what made ’em. I don’t 
reckon that I’m what they call superstitious, but aU 
the same I kin understand how these yere Injuns get 
to believin’ in sperrits bein’ around in the mountains, 
an’ in the wind, an’ even in owls, an’ coyotes, an’ 
sech critters. I’ve seen a coyote a-settin’ up on his 
ha’nches lookin’ at me, many a time, as though he 
knowed a heap more’n I did j an’ then as soon as he 
seen I had my eye on him he’d let on that he was 
jest a natchral bom fool, an’ go shnkin’ off with his 
tail between his legs, untH presently I’d find him 
lookin’ at me again from the top of a hill jest out o’ 
range. Same way with owls. 

Jack laid over any man I ever seen fer under- 
standin’ sech varmin, an’ he jest used to laugh when 
I’d maintain that they knowed more’n folks give ’em 
credit for. He ’lowed that it was jest hke it is with 
some men what look sort o’ solemn an’ seem to know 
a heap, but when you come to pan ’em out there 
ain’t nothin’ there. An’ I reckon Jack knowed, fer 
I’ve seen liim set on an old log an’ talk to a squirrel 
till he’d talk it plumb down out of a tree. An’ as 
fer dogs, I never seen a dog yet that didn’t come up 
an’ stick his nose in Jack’s hand. Likewise with 
bosses. They’d do anything fer him. I don’t allow 


58 


GENTLEMAN JACK. 


that any man kin lay over me in the matter o’ hand- 
lin’ critters, whether it’s stagein’, or freightin’, or 
workin’ button-holes in an ox team. But there was 
this difference ’tween me’n Jack, an’ that was that 
while it took me a heap o’ cussin’ to fetch my out-fit 
to the top o’ Crazy Hoss, Jack ’ud never shed an 
oath. It sounds hard to believe, I’U agree to that, 
but it’s a fact jest the same. Not a cuss word did I 
ever year him drop. An’ what was more curious. 
Jack never got fuU. He didn’t seem to hanker after 
liquor, no way. Not that ye’re to think that he was 
one o’ the preachin’ kind, fer he warn’t. He didn’t 
keer fer no man’s soul no more’n he did fer his own. 
Every one was free to do as he durned please fer aU 
o’ Jack, an’ though he didn’t drink, he was jest as 
pleasant an’ sociable like as any o’ the boys that was 
whoopin’ it up. An’ more’n once after me’n him got 
to be pardners he’s packed me home over a bad trail 
when I was too full to sit on a hoss, an’ never a 
word said about it. Though I’m bound to state that 
that only happened the first summer, ’cause after 
that I got to thinkin’ it was sort o’ playin’ it low 
down on the pardnership fer Jack to be packin’ me 
home an’ he never givin’ me a chance to ’ciprocate. 
So I jest natchraUy quit gettin’ full. Same way with 
swearin’, I sort o’ got out o’ the way of it when me’n 
him was ah alone over on the North Fork. Fer it 
makes a feUer feel like a durned fool to be cussin’ 
an’ damnin’ every thing alongside of a man who 
never says a word more’n what he means. 

Well, as I was sayin’, I first nm across Jack in 


GENTLEMAN JACK. 


59 


Boise City. He joined our out-fit there as a freighter, 
an’ by the time we’d got in to Tin Cup I was tol’able 
well acquainted with him, an’ I’m free to confess 
that I sort o’ took to him from the first. But the 
rest o’ the boys allowed that there warn’t no good in 
him, ’cause he didn’t stand in with ’em after they’d 
landed the train in Tin Cup. They was used to 
celebratin’ their arrival in town by loadin’ up with 
whiskey, an’ ridin’ ’round, an’ tearin’ the finin’ out o’ 
things gen’rally, an’ Jack didn’t have no use fer that 
kind o’ fun. So some of the boys put it up that he 
was a tin-hom gambler that had got busted an’ gone 
to freightin’, an’ was keepin’ sober to ring in a cold 
deck on ’em. Then others, like Camas Prairie Jim, 
allowed that he was a tender-foot what had done 
something wrong back in the States, an’ had come 
out yere to lay low ^ while old Doc maintained that 
he was a college graduate. Doc was al’ays blowin’ 
’bout bein’ a college graduate himself, ’specially when 
he was drunk, which was most o’ the time. He wore 
a biled shirt, though it were gen’rally too blamed 
dirty to show fer itself, an’ he was forever yankin’ 
down his cuffs an’ squarin’ off to do the perlite to 
strangers, an’ springin’ that about his bein’ a college 
graduate, hopin’ they’d ask him to step up an’ take 
somethin’, so I guess his say didn’t amount to much. 
As fer me, I knowed J ack wam’t a gambler, an’ he 
didn’t have the look of a man what had done any- 
thing to be ashamed of ; an’ as fer bein’ a college 
graduate. Doc might have been right, an’ then again 
he mightn’t, I ain’t sayin’. Fer Jack knowed a heap. 


60 


GENTLEMAN JACK. 


an’ there were few things he wam’t ekal to, from 
packin’ a mnle to talkin’ to old French Mary in her 
own lingo. Not that you’d ever find out from him- 
self what he could do, fer he was a man of mighty 
few words, an’ it was only when the time come that 
he’d up an’ do a thing, an’ no more said about it. 

The women was quicker at sizin’ Jack up. Some- 
how or other, no matter how low down a woman 
gets to be, she kin size a man up every time. Jack 
didn’t go out of his way to speak to ’em, but when 
he did meet ’em he was al’ays jest the same, as quiet 
an’ respectable in his talk to the worst of ’em as he 
was to the best. There was old French Mary, that 
had the roughest tongue of any woman in the Snake 
River country, when Jack was took sick with fever, 
later on, she come to our camp an’ carried him off to 
her house down by the ferry, an’ nursed him till he 
got well — dumed if she didn’t! An’ the way she 
done it, so soft an’ gentle, laid over anything I ever 
seen. It was her daughter, Louise, that give him 
the name o’ Gentleman Jack.” Camas Prairie Jim 
was in the habit o’ calhn’ down at French Mary’s a 
good deal now that Louise was at home, an’ he was 
buckin’ against the old woman’s havin’ the stranger 
there so long, an’ makin’ such a fuss over him. 

“How do you know,” says he, “that he ain’t a 
sluice-robber, or a road-agent ? ” 

“You’re a fool, Jim,” says Louise, chippin’ in. 
“ 8acri bleu ! Don’t you suppose that I know a gen- 
tleman when I see one ! An’ that’s what he is, from 
the gi'ound up.” 


GENTLEMAN JACK. 


61 


^‘Gentleman nothin'! said Jim. ^‘Hell's full o' 
snch gentlemen ! " 

This part of it ain't/' said Louise. 

Oh, of course," said Jim, ‘‘ that’s always the way 
. it is with a woman. She'll go dead hack on aU her 
old friends that's stood by her an' is willin' to do 
anything to please her, fer the first smooth-tongued 
stranger that comes along. I've heard something 
about your bein' struck on this fellow. But I’U tell 
you one thing, Louise," said Jim, running his hand 
over his mustache soft an' slow, ‘‘this yere gentle- 
man o' yours 'U find that there's other gentlemen 
'round these mines, an' that they ain't goin' to allow 
any smooth Alec to come in to the camp puttin' on 
airs, and — and " 

“ And what ? " said Louise, sort o' mockin' him. 

“Durn it! Louise," bust out Jim, gettin' mad, 
“ ain't you got any sense o' shame, at all ? " 

Well, at that Louise jest drew herseK up as straight 
as a young pine, an' looked at him sort o' dehberate, 
all up an' down, from his hat to his spurs, an' back 
again, an' then said mighty cool, considerin' how her 
eyes was a-fiashin', “ Yes," she said, “ I have. I'm 
ashamed to think that I have given such as you the 
right to talk to me hke that." An' she turned her 
back on him an' went out o' the room, maybe to 'tend 
on Jack, I don't know. 

But what I did know was, that Jack 'ud have Jim 
Brody campin' on his trail as soon as he got out. 
Fer Jim set a heap o' store by Louise, as did a good 
many o' the boys in the mines, an' fer all her carry- 


62 


GENTLEMAN JACK. 


in^s on, would a-married her in no time if she’d a 
said the word. Fer Louise was party an’ smart, an’ 
had a mighty takin’ way with her. An’ you couldn’t 
help hut think that it warn’t altogether her fault 
that she wam’t any better than she was, considerin’ 
the lay-out that she had got in life. Her mother, 
old French Mary, had been roughin’ it in the mines 
since ’56. Some said that she was rich, which was 
like enough, as a heap o’ dust had been taken out in 
that country, an’ I reckon a good deal of it come her 
way; an’ she had tried her best to do the squai’e 
thing by Louise, fer she cared more fer the gal than 
fer anything else on the face o’ the yearth. But she 
warn’t exactly the sort o’ person to be the mother of 
a young gal. I reckon she knowed that as well as 
any one, ’cause she had had Louise raised mostly 
down at Boise, an’ wouldn’t have her home only 
once in a while fer a few days at a time. An’ durin’ 
them days old Mary ’ud straighten herself out, an’ 
wouldn’t touch a drop of anything, an’ kep’ a bridle 
on her tongue, speakin’ French altogether, so that 
there warn’t a more respectable seemin’ woman in 
the mines than she was. An’ if you year me, it 
warn’t healthy fer no man to let on that she warn’t 
what she seemed, either. Not that the boys would 
a-given her away. On the contrary, as soon as ’twas 
known that Louise was visitin’ Tin Cup the most of 
’em ’ud let on like they’d never seen Mary afore, an’ 
didn’t know her from a side o’ sole leather; an’ 
others when they’d meet her ’ud take off their hats 
an’ bow as perlite as you please. Burned if it warn’t 


GENTLEMAN JACK. 


63 


enough to make a coyote laugh to see the way they’d 
copper old Mary’s game. Why, they’d even go out 
o’ the way so as not to pass her house, an’ if Louise 
’ud come out fer a walk word was passed up along 
the street ahead of her, so that she shouldn’t hear 
nothin’ that she hadn’t ought to.' 

But it warn’t no use. Whether it was in the 
blood or whether she fell in with them that led her 
olf, I don’t know, but when Louise was about seven- 
teen or eighteen she begun to run a httle wild down 
in Boise. Then her mother had her up to Tin Cup 
and tried her best to keep things straight, but some- 
how or other the old game didn’t work. Maybe 
Louise begun to ’spicion about her mother, or maybe 
Mary couldn’t stand the strain so long ; at any rate, 
things begun to give a little yere an’ a little there, 
an’ although a good many o’ the boys, an’ pertic’larly 
Prairie Jim, tried to keep the business timbered up, 
it jest natchrally slmnped. It ’peared hke Louise 
was bent on goin’ to the devil in her own way, ridin’ 
’round the country (she could ride like a buckayro), 
goin’ to bronco balls, an’ one thing an’ another, with 
plenty among the women in the camp to help her 
on. As fer old Mary, it jest broke her up completely, 
the way Louise was turnin’ out, ’cause she had set 
her heart on her daughter’s bein’ respectable. An’ 
it was a purty rough deal, any v*^ay you look at it. 
An’, as I say, there was lots o’ the boys who didn’t 
blame Louise so much as they did the lay-out she’d 
got in life, an’ who’d ’a been glad to marry her if 
she’d only given ’em the chance. But Louise didn’t 


64 


GENTLEMAN JACK. 


care fer none of ^em that way. She lowed that she 
warnl goin^ to give up her freedom to no manj 
though she liked Prairie Jim better than any of ’em, 
an’ ’ud take more from him. An’ she was right 
about that, too, fer Jim Brody was as square a man 
as ever turned a card. An’ that’s the way matters 
stood when this yere stranger chipped into the game. 
Louise was dead struck on him from the first. An’ 
although Jack never gave her any encouragement 
after he got well, so far as I could see, but jest treated 
her quiet an’ respectful, like he did all of the women, 
she was forever happenin’ around where he was an’ 
talkin’ to him. Sometimes she’d open out on him in 
French, mighty soft an’ low, an’ then again she’d 
fiare up an’ stamp her foot an’ tell him in good 
every-day American that he wam’t no man, but jest 
a natchral born fool ! 

WeU, things run along this way fer awhile till 
Jack got strong an’ weU, an’ ’twere time fer us to go 
on the road again. The night before the train puUed 
out, me’n him was campin’ in the corral where we’d 
been gettin’ our out-fit ready. Jack was doctorin’ 
an old saddle, and I was sittin’ by the fire smokin’, 
to keep him company, the rest o’ the boys bein’ over 
to the Palace a-whoopin’ it up. An’ we got to talkin’ 
’bout the stars, which was shinin’ mighty bright that 
evenin’. I was a-sajun’ that I reckoned that men like 
me’n him, what mostly lived out under the sky, could 
give some o’ these yere ’stronomers points in their 
business. 

‘‘ Now,” I says, look at the star o’ Bethlehem over 


GENTLEMAN JACK. 


65 


yonder, in the east. Many^s the time, winter an^ 
summer. I’ve watched her come up over the hiUs.” 

The star of what ^ ” says Jack. 

The star o’ Bethlehem,” I says, what riz when 
Christ was crucyfied.” 

Then I heard a sort o’ laugh come out o’ the dark- 
ness, an’ turnin’ ’round I seen Louise a-sittin’ on a 
wagon tongue leanin’ hack again the box, with her 
hands clasped behind her head; an’ mighty purty 
she looked there, too, in the firehght, swingin’ her 
heels an’ laughin’ — ^if it was at me. 

“ I don’t believe that. Bill,” says she. 

“ I’m a camas-eatin’ Injun if it ain’t so ! ” says I. 
“ I seen it in the Bois6 City Herald” 

“ Ah ! ” she says. Then that settles it,” an’ 
laughs again sort o’ low. 

Then presently, while she kep’ lookin’ up at the 
stars, she says, Jack, do you beheve all that that’s 
in the Bible, about Christ bein’ the Son of God, and 
caring so much for us that he got himself crucified 
so as we wouldn’t have to go to heU? You’ve had 
an education. Jack, and know a heap ; do you believe 
it?” 

“Do you believe it, Louise?” says Jack. 

“ No, I don’t,” says she, mighty short, jumpin’ off 
the wagon an’ cornin’ up to the fire. “No, I don’t. 
It don’t stand to reason. Why, look at it yourseff. 
Jack. Here’s a God that sets out to make a lot of 
people who don’t ask to be made. He just does it to 
pass the time. And he makes a world to put them 

in where blizzards freeze them to death on the 
6 


66 


GENTLEMAN JACK. 


prairies, and tlie snow-slide buries them in tbe moun- 
tains, and Injuns kill them. And be makes them so 
bad and wicked that they go and do things that they 
hate themselves for afterward, and wish that they’d 
never been born, and — and — and are miserahUy par 
bleu ! ” Her voice sort o’ choked up when she said 
this, but she went right on. Then the God up and 
says: ‘Well, these people are a dead failure, for a 
fact ! So I’ll put them aU in hell and let them bmm 
there forever and ever.’ Jack, is that a square deal ? 
I’m not talking about love nor pity, but only is it a 
square deal? He made us! Whose fault was it 
that we are not good? And when his own Son 
interferes and allows he would like to do something 
to help us, God sends him down to be crucified and 
killed. Sapristi ! if any of us was to treat a son like 
that, I reckon the boys would take a hand in the 
game durned quick. No, sir-ee ! I don’t take any 
stock in that story. I would just as soon believe in 
the Injun gods that was coyotes and snakes before 
they got to be gods. Yes, I would.” 

Well, Jack he didn’t say nothin’, only sat there 
smokin’ an’ lookin’ at the fire. So I couldn’t help 
ehippin’ in, ’cause though you’re to understand that 
I’m one o’ these yere cussin’, an’ drinkin’, an’ gam- 
bhn’ kind, that the parsons ain’t got no use fer, I’ve 
a heap o’ respect fer religion in other folks, an’ it 
sort o’ made me feel bad to hear a woman speak Hke 
that. So I says: “I reckon you’re talkin’ jest to 
hear yourself talk, Louise. You’re settin’ up to 
know more’n all the parsons what ’ve made a study 


GENTLEMAN JACK. 


67 


o’ these yere things. An’ it don’t sound well in a 
young gal hke you to be buckin’ again the truth.” 

Parsons ! ” says she, sort o’ scornful. “ What do 
they know more than anybody else ? I have talked 
to them, to the padre up at the mission in Cceur 
d’Alene, and out here at the Agency, and to the 
army chaplain down at Bois6, and there is nothing 
in it. Why, when this new Gospel sharp come out 
to the Agency, I thought I’d struck it rich, but he 
petered out quicker than old Doc’s quartz ledge in 
Rocky Gulch. And at last aU that he could say 
was : ‘ Young woman, get down on your knees and 
humble yourself before God, or his wrath wdl over- 
take you ! ’ That’ll do to preach to treaty Injuns, 
but it ain’t my style. Why, look at me ! ” she went 
on, standin’ up an’ throwin’ her hands out in front 
of her. “ Do you suppose there is any love or pity 
in God makin’ me! let alone putting me in this 
country where there is nothing that I want and 
everything I hate ! Look at me ! ” 

An’ she laughed sort o’ hard, an’ kicked a bumin’ 
chunk o’ wood back into the fire, an’ turned away 
where it was dark, an’ stood there fer a minute. 

Then she comes back an’ says more quiet, ^‘You 
haven’t answered me. Jack. Do you believe aU that 
in the Bible?” An’ she appeared sort o’ anxious. 
An’ I was kind o’ curious, myself, to hear what my 
pardner ’ud have to say. 

Jack he laid the saddle by, an’ knocked the ashes 
out of his pipe mighty slow, as though he was 
a-thinkin’ it over, an’ then says : “ So long as you’re 


68 


GENTLEMAN JACK. 


not satisfied yourself, Louise, I don’t suppose there 
is any harm in my saying that there is a great deal 
of it I don’t believe.” 

An’ she spoke up right away an’ says, “ Of course. 
That goes without saying.” But sort o’ dogged, with 
no spirit. I reckon, fer all her talk, she was disap- 
pointed. I know I was. Fer I counted on my pard- 
ner doin’ the correct thing, ..an’ slingin’ some good, 
old-fashioned religion at her, that ’ud a-knocked 
these yere notions out of her head, an’ straightened 
her out, fer she needed it. An’ it sort o’ made me 
hot in the collar to year Jack say that he didn’t 
beheve all there was in the Bible — it did, fer a fact. 
But he went right on talkin’ without mindin’ either 
of us. An’ while he talked he looked in the fire as 
though he seen what he was sayin’ in the coals. An’ 
purty soon me an’ Louise was a-listenin’, an’ a-starin’ 
at ’em too, as though we seen it same as he did. 
What was it he said? Well, you can’t prove it by 
me. Not that we couldn’t foUow his trail. It seemed 
plain enough, the way he made it out. Though it 
wam’t the same old trail my mother, back in Con- 
necticut, had led me along when I was a kid, an’ 
which the parsons had blazed with Bible marks so 
that you couldn’t get out of it. He jest talked in 
that natchral way o’ his’n ’bout these yere things that 
I had been raised to believe only parsons had the 
caU on. An’ the way Jack talked somided sort 
o’ reckless, jest as though the people in the Bible 
was every-day sort o’ people like me an’ him, that 
might be livin’ over in the Patlatch country or up at 


GENTLEMAN JACK. 


69 


Kootenai, — though all the same I ain’t denyin’ ’twere 
common sense an’ had a heap o’ rehgion in it that 
went right to the spot where you could feel it 
a-workin’. 

An’ while he was talkin’ Louise come an’ set down 
on the saddle alongside of him, an’ puttin’ her hand 
before her eyes to shade ’em from the fire, she looked 
up in his face. An’ when at last Jack quit she didn’t 
say nothin’, but she leaned her cheek on her hand 
an’ stared at the coals fer a long time. Then she 
spoke up, sort o’ slow, still starin’ hard at the fire. 

Do you know. Jack,” she says, “ I’d hke to be good. 
I would for — a — fact ! I’d like to be good like the 
women you’re used to.” Then aU of a sudden she 
bust out, “ Oh, mon Dieu ! why wasn’t I born a lady, 
instead of — of what I am ! ” An’ layin’ her head 
down on her arms she begun to cry, least ways I 
j edged so from the way her shoulders was shakin’. 

WeU, that jest broke me all up, an’ I was gettin’ 
on my feet to go over to her to say somethin’ to 
brace her up, when Jack sort o’ motioned to me to 
keep stiU. If Jack hadn’t got such a masterful way 
with him, I reckon I’d a told him to go to thunder, 
’cause it made me fightin’ mad to see Louise cry, but 
before I’d straightened things out in my mind Louise 
had let up. Then Jack spoke out an’ said, “The 
road is open to you, Louise, to make yourself what 
you want to be. It only rests with you to take it 
and keep it.” 

At that the gal raised her head sharply an’ looked 
at him over her shoulder, an’ aU the answer she gave 


70 


GENTLEMAN JACK. 


was tliat short, scornful laugh o’ hers. An’ standin’ 
up, she lifted her hands slowly to her head an’ 
crowded the hair back from her face, an’ drew a long 
breath like she was mighty tired. Then she let her 
ai’ms fah to her side an’ turned away without a 
word. 

Think about it while I’m gone,” said Jack. You 
know just as well as I do that I’m right.” 

But Louise didn’t pay no more attention to him, 
only jest walked away. 

WeU, the next momin’ we puUed out fer Boise, 
an’ was gone nigh on to two months. When we 
come back Jack’s team was ahead o’ mine workin’ 
down Crazy Hoss grade, an’ jest as he passed the 
trail that makes a short cut into Tin Cup I seen 
Louise ride out an’ join him. At the same time I 
had a soi-t o’ suspicion that I’d seen a feUer on a 
strawberry roan in among the timber, watchin’ the. 
train go by. I warn’t sure on account o’ the dust, 
but it looked mighty hke Prairie Jim’s roan. 

That night after we’d got in, a good many o’ the 
boys was at the Crystal Palace havin’ a time. An’ 
Jim Brody was there, standin’ in with ’em, which 
wam’t altogether usual with Jim, ’cause he warn’t 
exactly what you’d call a drinkin’ man. An’ while a 
lot of us was standin’ ’round the bar, somehow or 
other the talk turned on the stranger that had come 
up with us on the trip before. I think it was Jim 
Brody that started it. 

“I see that this yere fellow they call ^G-entle- 
man Jack’ has come back to camp again,” he says. 


GENTLEMAN JACK. 


71 


“ Whaf s the reason he don^t show up with the rest 
the boys ? ” 

I reckon he^s too high-toned/^ said the bar-keep, 
who didn’t bear him no good-will. 

“ They say he won’t di’ink with nobody j is that 
so ? ” said Jim. 

Yes, that’s about the size of it, pardner,” said the 
bar-keep. 

‘‘ WeU, gentlemen,” said Jim, ‘‘he mil diink with 
somebody. He’ll drink with me, or I’U know the 
reason why ! ” 

Some of the feUers in the crowd hoUered, “ That’s 
right, Jim ! ” “ You bet we’U show him ! ” an’ one 

thing an’ another, bein’ half drunk an’ ready fer a 
row. Only old Doc says, “ Oh, come, Jim. I wouldn’t 
engage in an altercation with the gentleman, just 
’cause he don’t know what’s good.” 

“ I reckon you wouldn’t,” says Jim, sort o’ sneerin’ 
an’ lookin’ Doc over from head to foot. “ But we 
ain’t goin’ to have any strangers puttin’ on aii*s 
’round this camp. You year me ! ” 

Well, jest at that moment I seen the very man we 
was talkin’ about, standin’ in a crowd ’round a faro 
lay-out down by the door, an’ I was dog-goned glad 
of it. Fer, although there was a heap o’ other places 
in Tin Cup where a feller could go, the Palace was 
the gen’ral stampin’-ground ; an’ bein’ sort o’ inter- 
ested in Jack, as I say, I didn’t want it to appear 
that he was layin’ low to keep out o’ the way o’ the 
boys, an’ pertic’larly Jim Brody. Purty soon he 
come a-meanderin’ up the room like he didn’t have 


72 


GENTLEMAN JACK. 


nothin' to do, an' all summer to do it in. I reckon 
he'd just come from the barber's, 'cause his hair was 
cropped close an' his beard trimmed down to a p'int, 
an' he looked as shck as a hoss that's shed his winter 
coatj though fer that matter Jack always was a 
great hand fer groomin' himself, even on the road. 
He was a younger man than me, 'bout thirty, I 
reckon, an' 'bout middle height, only that he had a 
way o' carryin' his head up that made him look 
taller. His blue flannel shirt sort o' sot loose 'round 
the belt on account of his shoulders bein' so broad 
an' squar', an' altogether he was lookin' mighty flt. 
An', as I was a-sayin', I was well pleased to see him 
show up jest at that moment when Prairie Jim was 
a-blowin' about makin' him drink, 'cause I wanted to 
see Jim took down a notch or two, an' I was cuPous 
to know if Jack was the man to do it. I had an idee 
that he were. So when he come near, I says, ‘‘Well, 
gentlemen, there's the identical person you're talkin' 
about right now. I reckon he kin speak fer himself." 

So at that they all turned 'round an' looked at 
him, an' Doc was sort o' squarin' off to do the perlite 
an' smooth things down, an' some o' the boys shut 
up. But Jim he jest scowled an' cussed, an' at last 
called out, “Say, young feUer, come an' take a 
drink ! " 

Well, at that Jack he looked up, an' seein' me, he 
nodded pleasant enough an' come strollin' over to 
the bar. Now, knowin' Jim Brody as well as I did, 
an' knowin' him, as I've said before, to be as square 
a man as ever turned a card, an' one that wouldn't 


GENTLEMAN JACK. 


73 


take no sort of advantage of another man, I kin only- 
account fer what happened on the score of his havin’ 
been drinkin’ an’ not bein’ altogether responsible. I 
don’t believe that it ever entered his head that the 
stranger warn’t heeled. But I knowed that Jack 
rarely ever carried a gun, an’ the first thing I looked 
fer was to see if he was fixed — an’ he wam’t. 

Stranger,” said Jim, “ I want you to drink with 
me.” 

Well, fer a moment Jack he seemed sort o’ sur- 
prised. He took off his hat an’ run his hand over 
his head, an’ looked first at Jim an’ then at the other 
fellers that was crowdin’ around, an’ then he said, 
‘^No, thank you, I don’t drink — ^that is, nothin’ but 
water.” 

Stranger,” said Jim, sort o’ settlin’ himself down 
to business, “I’ve heerd as how you’ve refused to 
drink with gentlemen that’s asked you. But I’m 
goin’ to let you know that you can’t put on any airs 
in this camp. You’re goin’ to drink with me, an’ 
you’re goin’ to drink whiskey, an’ that’s aU there is 
about it ! Set ’em up, bar-keep.” 

The bar-keep he set out two glasses an’ a bottle o’ 
whiskey. Jim he fiUed ’em both, an’ he shoved one 
glass along in front o’ the stranger. An’ aU the time 
I kep’ my eye on Jack to see how he’d play this yere 
lone hand without ere a gun. Then I noticed he 
begun to look kind o’ queer ’round the gills, an’ when 
Jim pushed the glass toward him an’ said, “ Drink, 
stranger ! ” he took the glass up in his hand. WeU, 
thought I to myself, he’s weakened, an’ I don’t much 


74 


GENTLEMAN JACK. 


blame him, considerin’ he ain’t heeled. But all the 
same I felt kind o’ disappointed. When, the next 
minute, biff ! he slung the whole consarn, whiskey, 
glass, an’ aU, right squar’ in Jim’s face ! 

Well, gentleme^i / I teU you there was a mighty 
hvely scramblin’ then. The crowd jest natchraJly 
broke fer cover. Jim, half blinded with the hquor, 
got his gun out tol’able quick. But not quicker’n 
Jack reached fer it. The thing went off an’ some- 
body dropped — ^but it warn’t the stranger. Talk 
about your purty sights ! I never want to see any- 
thing purtier than the way that young feller grabbed 
Jim’s pistol with one hand an’ landed ’tween his eyes 
with the other! Well, the crowd seein’ it was all 
over, come out o’ their holes, an’ Jim he sat up on 
the floor lookin’ sort o’ dazed, an’ said, WeU, shoot, 
damn you I if you’re goin’ to ! ” 

“ Shoot, nothing I ” said Jack, sort o’ disgusted an’ 
mad. “ Get up, and don’t sit there hke a fool 1 ” 

Then one o’ Jim’s friend’s jumped in front of him 
an’ said, See here, young feller, it strikes me you’re 
altogether too free with your names on a man that’s 

down. Prairie Jim’s a friend o’ mine ” an’ he 

begun fingerin’ ’round his gun. 

But here I chipped in, an’ I said, Hold on, gen- 
tlemen,” says I. You all know me. This stranger 
yere is a pardner o’ mine. I allowed he was man 
enough to talk fer himself, an’ he’s had his say. But 
if there’s goin’ to be any shootin’, you kin count me 
in alongside o’ him. What’s more, I’m free to main- 
tain that the way he’s been treated yere to-night, 


GENTLEMAN JACK. 


75 


bein^ a stranger an’ pleasant, an’ not interferin’ with 
nobody, is a dnrned shame ! An’ if he had played 
Jim’s gun on hi m fer all it was worth, he’d a-served 
him jest about right. An’ now if any o’ you galoots 
is on the fight, jest say so, an’ I reckon me an’ my 
pardner yere kin accommodate you.” 

That’s all right. Bill,” said my pardner, layin’ his 
hand on my arm. “ I guess we can take care of our- 
selves. As for you,” he went on, lookin’ at Jim, who 
had got on his feet by this time, ‘^if you’re sober 
enough I want you to come outside and have a talk 
with me.” 

You’ve got my weapon,” said Jim, sort o’ dogged j 
1 ain’t got another.” 

“ Do you think I’m asking you out to shoot ? ” said 
my pardner. ’Cause I’m not. I’m asking you out 
to talk. Don’t you suppose that if I’d wanted to 
shoot you I could have done it a moment ago ? And 
as for not having any weapon, I didn’t have any 
weapon when you insulted me, and pulled your gun 
on me — and it was a cowardly trick, do you hear ! 
All the same, I’m ready to give you the credit of 
behoving that you did it because you were di’unk, 
and that you’U be ashamed of it when you’re sober. 
And so I’m willing to forget it and say no more 
about it. Now wih you come ? ” 

But Jim still seemed sort o’ doubtful, not knowin’ 
what to make o’ the proposition, an’ natchraUy sus- 
picionin’ that Jack was layin’ to get even with him. 

“WeU, here,” said my pardner, sort o’ out of 
patience, here, take your pistol.” An’ I’m a sluice- 


76 


GENTLEMAN JACK. 


robber if he didn’t hand Jim back his gun ! “ Now^ 

then/’ he said, “ you’re heeled and I’m not. Will you 
come now, or are you still afraid ? ” 

At that Jim raised his head an’ looked my pard- 
ner squar’ in the face, an’ I, who was watchin’ him 
mighty keen, seen that he was jest about sobered up. 
An’ sure enough, the next minute Jim shoved his 
pistol across the counter to the bar-keep an’ says, 
‘^Take care o’ that tiU I caU for it.” An’, then 
turnin’ to Jack, he said, Come on ! ” An’ the two 
of them walked out, leavin’ me an’ the rest o’ the 
crowd starin’ after ’em. 

Then one o’ the fellers spoke up an’ said, ‘‘Well, 
I’U be durned ! ” An’ some laughed, an’ some was 
fer foUerin’ ’em. But though I didn’t have an idee 
left to gamble on what Jack’s game might be, I had 
sense enough to stand by the door an’ argue that 
they should be let alone to settle it in their own way, 
one again one. An’ most o’ the boys agreed to that, 
an’ bein’ diverted by other things soon forgot about 
the row. But it was all of half an hour before I 
reckoned ’twere safe fer me to shde out an’ look fer 
my pardner without bein’ follered. By that time I 
couldn’t find Jack high nor low, in camp nor on the 
streets, nor in any of the saloons. There was only 
one other likely place to look, an’ that was French 
Mary’s. Somehow or other I didn’t keer to go there, 
but I went all the same. 

There was a light in the window, an’ I could hear 
tal k i n ’ on the inside, but I had to knock two or three 
times before any one come. Then old Mary herseK 


GENTLEMAN JACK. 


77 


opened the door, an^ when she made out who I was 
she took hold o^ my hand an^ drew me in, an^ the 
next thing I knowed she threw both her arms around 
my neck, cryin’ an’ laughin’, an’ talkin’ in French 
an’ English, all at once. 

“What’s the matter with you?” I said, pushin’ 
her away. “ Have you been drinkin’ again ? ” 

“No, no,” she said, “never again, never agaiu! 
It is that I am so glad ! Mon JDieu ! it is that I am 
so glad ! But come, my good BiU, come, and I will 
show you.” 

An’ with that, draggin’ me after her, she opened 
the door o’ the room where the light was, an’ there 
stood my pardner, Jim Brody, an’ Louise. 

WeU, as soon as Prairie Jim seen me he come over 
with his hands shoved out, laughin’ loud, an’ said, 
“ HeUo, Bill ! Shake, old pard ! ” 

“ What’s it aU about ? ” I said, lookin’ from one to 
another. 

“Only this,” said Jim. “I went out prospectin’ 
for a funeral, but I struck it rich an’ found a wife. 
Burned if I didn’t ! ” he said, turnin’ ’round an’ 
throwin’ his hand out toward Louise. “ There she 
is ! Ain’t that so, Louise ? ” 

An’ Louise, who was standin’ there lookin’ hke a 
pietuF, with a pale face, an’ her head droopin’, an’ 
her hands clasped in front of her, spoke up very 
quiet an’ said “ Yes.” 

“ Yes, sir,” said Jim, smoothin’ his mustache an’ 
speakin’ sort o’ to himself, while he looked at her 
very proud, “yes, sir, she’s goin’ to be my true an’ 


78 


GENTLEMAN JACK. 


lawful wife, to keep an^ to hold, till death do us part, 
amen. Not that I’m good enough for her, you 
understand,’’ he went on, turnin’ ’round on us ; ‘‘I 
ain’t. I know that. But I’m goin’ to do my level 
best to make the little woman happy. You hear 
me ! ” 

And you’ll do it, Jim, I know,” said my pardner, 
cornin’ for’ard from where he’d been leanin’ again 
the mantel-piece all this time. 

“Yes, sir,” said Jim, mighty serious, “I will.” 
Then bustiu’ out into a laugh again, he raised his 
hand an’ brought it down hard on my pardner’s 
shoulder, an’ holdin’ him out at arm’s length, he said, 
“ An’ this yere feUow, this yere Gentleman Jack, that 
I was galoot enough to think warn’t on the square 
an’ was workin’ against me, an’ that gave me the 
dog-gonedst hckin’ to-night that I ever got in my 

life, an’ served me right, too Look at him. Bill ! 

I teU you what, it takes the women to size a man up. 
An’ when Louise allowed that this stranger was a 
gentleman, built from the ground, she was just dead 
right. Yes, sir, she was dead right, an’ if any man’s 
got anything to say against it, let him say it to me ! ” 

Jack sort o’ laughed, an’ walkin’ over to Louise, 
held out his hand an’ said, “ It’s getting late, Louise j 
good-night.” 

The gal kind o’ hesitated, an’ then puttin’ out her 
hand, she said, “ Good-night,” at the same time she 
raised her eyes an’ give him a look. Maybe it was 
because of her eyes bein’ big an’ dark natchraUy, an’ 
more so to-night on account of the excitement, I 


GENTLEMAN JACK. 


79 


don’t know, but if it bad been me sbe looked at that 
way — but it warn’t, so where’s tbe use o’ talkin’. 

Well, when we got back to camp my pardner 
walked up to tbe fire an’ threw a chunk o’ wood on 
it, an’ then takin’ out bis knife, be begun cuttin’ up 
some tobacco, rubbin’ it very slow between tbe palms 
of bis bands. Then be filled bis pipe, bt it, an’ stood 
there smokin’ an’ starin’ at tbe blaze fer a long time. 
He didn’t offer to talk ’bout what bad happened, an’ 
I knowed him well enough not to ask no questions. 
But after awhile be looked up at me an’ be says, 
‘‘ Bill,” be says, “ did you mean what you said up at 
tbe Palace to-night, about being my pardner ? ” 

‘‘ Yes,” I said, I did.” 

Well, then” be says, “ I teU you what it is. I’m 
tired of freighting, and as I’ve got a bttle money 
laid by, enough for a grub stake, suppose that you 
and I try our bands at prospecting. I’ve an idea 
that there are some pretty good locations over on 
the Noi-tb Fork. What do you say ? ” 

I’m agreeable,” I said. 

All right,” said Jack, ‘‘that settles it.” 

An’ tbe next day we bought our out-fit, an’ tbe 
followin’ mornin’ before tbe mist was off tbe river 
bottom, we- were beaded fer tbe North Fork. 


MOSES COHEN, THE JEW. 


Yes, lie were a Jew, for a fact, and the littlest 
Jew I ever laid eyes on. I reeclect well the first 
time I seen him. Me an’ my pardner was workin’ a 
claim np on the North Fork, an’ had come down to 
Tin Cnp to lay in a stock of grub. A fellow they 
called ‘‘The Parson,” a new-comer in that section, 
joined ns on the trad. We were aU used to tradin’ 
at Sdverstein’s, piincipaUy ’cause it were the only 
decent store in Tin Cup, an’ then there was no 
denyin’ that, takin’ everything into consideration, 
Abe Sdverstein was as square a man as ever turned 
a card. So in we walked, the Parson first, me next, 
an’ Gentleman Jack, that’s my pardner, last. Sd- 
verstein was not there, an’ at first I thought there 
warn’t no one in, tdl I see this yere Moses Cohen 
come around from behind the counter. As I ted 
you, he warn’t no bigger than a puff o’ wind, an’ 
you couldn’t see his head over the calico an’ stuff 
pded up on the counter. When he come out in front 
he stood there and rubbed his hands together an’ 
bowed like an owl afore it dies, and said: “Ved, 
shentlemen, vat can I do for you?” 


MOSES COHEN, THE JEW. 


81 


Tbe Parson, who was lookin’ np at the shelves an’ 
’round at the boxes, didn’t see him at first an’ begun : 

Have you got any cheese 1 ” an’ then, ketchin’ sight 
of Moses, he wound up, “ sus, what a nose ! ” 

I reckon the little fellow was used to being made 
fun of, ’cause when the Parson laughed fit to kill 
himself, he only sunk his head a Little more between 
his shoulders, an’ looked up at us and then down at 
the floor again. 

“I allow,” said I, “that you didn’t bring your 
Eyetalian an’ organ along with you, pardner.” 

Then right away I felt sort of mean for sayin’ it, 
partly because the poor devil looked at me in such a 
helpless kind o’ way, an’ partly ’cause I didn’t like 
the Parson, an’ didn’t want to stand in with him 
even on a joke. 

But the Parson, who had been fillin’ up on the 
trad an’ was half drunk, laughed louder than ever at 
my remark, an’ pickin’ up a lariat that lay on the 
counter, he said : “ I’d be the Eyetalian ! ” And 
takin’ a turn ’round the Jew’s neck he begun singin’ 
an’ movin’ his hand round an’ round as though he 
were grindin’ an organ, an’ cried out : “ Dance, now, 
you httle monkey, dance ! ” 

Wed, at that the Jew held up his hands an’ begun 
to protest in a very serious way : “ Ah, now, shen- 
tlemen, dat is not right, ready. I don’t like you to 
do dat vay. Oh, come now, d you please ! ” 

But the Parson only yanked him ’round with the 
rope an’ cried : “ Dance, durn you, dance ! ” 

Then Gentleman Jack, who had thrown one leg 
6 


82 


MOSES COHEN, THE JEW. 


over a barrel near the door, an’ was sittin’ there 
twirlin’ his spnr again’ the side, lookin’ out in the 
street, turned round. 

“Let him go. Parson,” he said, getting up and 
takin’ the rope off the Jewj “I’ve got to get back to 
camp some time to-night.” 

Now, if anybody else had interfered with the Par- 
son when he was haff drunk, ten chances to one but 
what it had ended in shootin’. But Gentleman Jack 
had a sort o’ quiet, easy way o’ goin’ right ahead an’ 
doin’ a thing, as pleasant as possible an’ without a 
sign of mistrust, that didn’t give a man time to get 
mad, until, maybe, he got to thinkin’ it over after- 
ward, when it were too late. At any rate, the Parson 
only bucked a httle about some fellows al’ays puttin’ 
on airs an’ spoihn’ fun, which Jack, who had begun 
tradin’, didn’t take no account of. An’ the Jew set 
up the drinks an’ was very eager to say that it was a 
joke, of course, an’ it was all right ; he could take 
a joke as weU as any man, an’ so no more was done 
about it. 

But from that time on, Moses, or Nosey, as we 
called him, took a great fancy to my pardner. He 
used to ride over to our claim on the North Fork 
every once in a while, an’ stay there for a day or two. 
An’ that was how I come to know him an’ how I 
found out what brought him into that section. For 
he was such a little, sensitive, shrinkin’ kind of a 
thing, for aU the world hke a half-fed kitten, I won- 
dered what wind had blowed him into Tin Cup, an’ 
what it was that kep’ him there. To be sure, the 


MOSES COHEN, THE JEW. 


83 


town warn’t no worse than other towns in the Injnn 
country, so fur as that goes. Not that it was much 
of a town, neither. Just a long street that begun 
somewhere on the road that led over the mesa an^ 
ended at Jim Day^s ferry across the Sweetwater, or 
SJcooTcumclmch, as some called it. The houses was 
mostly shanties made of boards and canvas, though 
there was some good ones, like the Grand Hotel, 
which was kep’ by French Joe, an’ Silverstein’s store 
an’ the Crystal Palace, where hquors was high, an’ 
they had every kind of a gambhng lay-out, and the 
Black Dog dance-house. The rest you could count 
on for bein’ low-down saloons an’ hash-houses, an’ 
such like. There was an Injun Agency and a mili- 
tary post about twenty miles off, an’ all the stores 
was freighted up from below into Tin Cup, where 
the guv’ment teams come for ’em. Then there were 
a heap of packing goin’ on up into the mines. So 
that what with the miners cornin’ in to get rid o’ 
their dust, an’ the soldiers after pay-day, an’ the 
packers and freighters cornin’ in and goin’ out wdth 
their pack-trains an’ teams, and Injuns tradin’, and 
the gamblers an’ riffraff genePly, Tin Cup was pretty 
hvely at times, ’specially in the summer. Of course 
Sdverstein’s bein’ the post-office an’ WeUs-Fargo’s, 
as well as the biggest store, was a sort o’ gatherin’ 
place for the boys, an’ as they genePly fiUed up when 
they got into town, waitin’ on ’em to their satisfac- 
tion warn’t no easy job. Not that they meant any 
harm, but they was playful, an’ bein’ nat’raUy keer- 
less and rough, they was liable to hurt somebody 


84 


MOSES COHEN, THE JEW. 


without meanin’ it. And Nosey bein^ such a queer 
httle creatur’, as timid an’ skeery as a prairie-dog, 
only a heap sight uglier, it warn’t a matter of sur- 
prise that the boys kind o’ made a play-thing out of 
him. It’s a holy wonder they didn’t kiU him a dozen 
times over. 

Why, to hear that httle cuss teU of some of the 
things that happened to him every day, was enough 
to make a cayuse laugh. Only, as he sat there talk- 
in’ in our shanty of an evenin’, with his feet scarce 
touchin’ the ground, an’ his head down in his 
shoulders, an’ his bright, black eyes shinin’ out of 
his yehow face a-watchin’ Gentleman Jack, somehow 
or other the laugh never seemed to come. Not that 
he whined about the deal he was gettin’, or tried to 
make us think it were a durned shame — ^for that’s 
what it was, an’ no mistake — or that he wanted to 
make us sorry for him. Not a bit of it. That’s 
where the queer part of it come in. He talked just 
as he might have talked ’bout failin’ off the east side 
of Bald Butte without gettin’ killed, or takin’ a kick 
from a bronco without gettin’ a leg broke, or any 
other surprisin’ adventure where it was all luck an’ 
none of his doing. He never ’peared to consider 
about the lay-out he was givin’ himself in other 
people’s minds. Only, when my pardner, J ack, would 
show interest an’ throw in a good word for his pluck 
or his nerve, the httle fellow’s eyes ’ud dance and 
he’d perk up his head an’ chip in eager an’ fresh to 
teU something stiU more wonderful. 

Oh, dat vas not anyding, my God, no ! ” he 


MOSES COHEN, THE JEW. 


85 


would say, pokin’ out his head and shakin’ his 
finger at us j dat vas not any ding to vat Big Bill 
und his hrudder do de very next day. You know 
dose fellows, Jack, dey got a ranch up on Camas 
Prairie. Veil, I vas standing in de street, training my 
dog. Grouse, to retrief — und he brings de ball back 
very veil. Jack, I dell youj yes, really! — ven I see 
dose two fellows come tearin’ down de road on deir 
cayuses, hollerin’ und yellin’ like dey vas crazy. I 
fought dey vas goin’ to ride right over me, I did, 
indeed. But de next minute dey came one on each 
side vithout stopping und picked me up by de collar 
of my coat, und carried me between dem down to de 
ferry. Und den dey turned und come back again 
up around Dutch Jenny’s, racin’ und hollerin’ like 
wdd Injuns, und dropped me at de store. I tell you. 
Jack, I vas afraid. It vas de greatest vender in de 
vorld dat dem cayuses didn’t kick me 1 You see it 
vas mighty lucky dat I had on a good coat vat didn’t 
tear. Dey’re pretty strong, too, dat Big Bdl und his 
brudder, for dey hold me right up aU de time, und 
de vay dey carried me along und vouldn’t hsten ven 
I begged ’em, ‘ Shentlemen, dat is not right ! If you 
please, put me down!’ It made eferybody laugh. 
But I don’t like dat kind of fun.” 

‘‘No,” said Jack, who was leanin’ over the fire 
makin’ bread in a Dutch oven, “ no, I should think 
not. Nosey. I wouldn’t like it my sell.” 

“No, now vould you. Jack, really,” said the Jew, 
leanin’ forward eagerly an’ throwin’ his hands 
out. 


86 


MOSES COHEN, THE JEW. 


And I kind o’ laughed to myself to think of Big 
Bill, or any other galoot, tryin’ that kind o’ thing 
on Gentleman Jack ! Why, the very first time he 
showed np in Tin Cnp an’ got his chris’nin’ — but 
there ! if I start into work that lead I’ll never let up. 
But that’s the way with Jack ; he kin lay over any 
man in Idaho on book-learnin’ ; he kin ride, an’ he 
kin shoot} there ain’t anything he can’t do, from 
packin’ a mule to talkin’ to French Joe’s old woman 
in her native dialect. Yet no man ever heard him 
say he could do anything. It’s only from me seein’ 
him do it when he got the caU, that I know there 
ain’t anything my pardner can’t do ! And with it 
aU he’s as quiet an’ nat’ral hke, no matter who he’s 
talkin’ to, whether it’s the colonel over at the fort or 
Dutch Jenny. An’ that’s how he treated the Jew, 
just as though Nosey an’ him was panned out of the 
same identical earth, and, bandn’ Jack’s httle extra 
experience in the mountains, was ekals in every 
respect. 

WeU, when Nosey finished his yam, I chipped in, 
sort o’ laughin’, and said : I should think you’d lay 
some of them fellows out. Nosey. You’re handy 
enough with your gun to get the di-op on ’em, 
now.” 

Yes, I teU you, ain’t dat so ! ” cried the little fellow, 
eagerly, takin’ it all in dead earnest } I tell you I 
can hit a dree now, at ten paces, vith my pistol. 
Yes, I can, reaUy, Jack. But, listen. Let me teU 
you vat some of dose boys did last night. Jim 
Ford’s pack-train came in, und Packer Charley he 


MOSES COHEN, THE JEW. 


87 


got very drunk, und he und dat one-eyed fellow from 
Bald Butte — I don’t know vat dey caU him — come 
in to de store. Und Packer Charley he bet dat oder 
fellow dat he could stand in de door und hit efery 
lamp in de place vithout missing. Den he begun to 
blaze avay. Yes, he did ! VeU, I told him, I said: 

^ Shentlemen, dat ain’t right. No, really, you ought 
not to do dat vay.’ VeU, I hadn’t no more than 
spoken. Jack, ven dat one-eyed feUow, *he said : 

‘ By thunder,’ he said, ^ come to think of it, I never 
kUled a Jew ! ’ Und he pointed his pistol right at 
me. I pledge you my vord he did. He said, ^ By 
thunder, I never kiUed a Jew ! ’ So den I teU you, 
I vas scared, und I got beliind de ize-chest, und I 
said: ^ VeU, but shentlemen, dat ain’t right, reaUy, 
’cause if you break aU de lamps my cousin Abe he’U 
blame me for it.’ Den Packer Charley, he said: 
^Hold on! Vun Jew ain’t enough between two of 
us. Let’s keep him tUl ve get anoder.’ Und de oder 
f eUow, he said : ‘ AU right, ve’U put him in de ize- 
chest.’ So dey picked me up und put me in de 
ize-chest. Yes, I give you my vord, dat is vat dey 
did. Und dey shut the Ud und got on top of it und 
danced, und hoUered, und shot aU de Ughts out, tiU 
pretty soon Sheriff Brinley come in und chased 
’em away. I teU you, yen dey opened dat ize-chest 
I vas pretty near dead. Oh, it vas hoiribly close 
in dat ize-chest, dere. I could hardly breathe, it 
vas so close. Und I vas glad to get out, I teU 
you.” 

And the Uttle man stroked his long, black mus- 


88 


MOSES COHEN, THE JEW. 


tache an’ blinked bis eyes at the fire, an’ looked at 
me, an’ then at Jack, very serions an’ earnest, waitin’ 
for an opinion. Now, why I didn^t bust out laughin’, 
beats me. ’Cause I’m nat’raUy given to seein’ the 
funny side o’ tilings, an’ a good many of my httle 
unpleasantnesses has cropped out o’ that same fact. 
The way I lost them there two fingers of my left 
hand was for laughiu’ when the other fellow didn’t 
see anything to laugh at — and I reckon he never 
wiU, now. But, as I teU you, when the httle Jew 
sat there, with his feet scarce touchin’ the ground 
an’ his head down in his shoulders, an’ his eyes 
a-bhnkin’ at the fire whhe he talked, I never felt like 
laugliin’. It wam’t till afterwards, when I got to 
thinkin’ about it, that I seen how funny it was. 
Then when he’d done talkin’, the way he watched us 
two, ’specially Jack, so patient, an’ yet so eager an’ 
hungry-hke, it put me in mind for aU the world of 
Jack’s dog when we’re eatin’ our grub. And when 
Jack ’ud chuck him a good word for his pluck or his 
nerve, as I say, Nosey ’ud look as pleased, an’ brace 
himselt up, an’ rub his hands, an’ twirl the end of 
his mustache, an’ say : Yes, I teU you.” 

As for Jack, when Nosey told about bein’ put 
away in the ice-chest to keep, he didn’t laugh. He- 
weren’t much of a hand to laugh, noways, an’ I 
never seen him laugh at the Jew. He just shoveled 
up some fresh coals on the hd of the Dutch oven, 
an’ then, tippin’ one into his pipe, he sat back in his 
chair an’* took a whiff or two. 

‘‘Nosey,” said he,' “why don’t you go down to 


MOSES COHEN, THE JEW. 


89 


Portland and stay for awhile ? I spoke to Abe about 
it the other day, and he said he’d give yon a place 
in his store there.” 

Oh, my gracious, Jack,” protested the little fellow, 
lookin’ very much disappointed, “ I don’t vant to go. 
I like it very well up here, my frient. An’ dose 
fellows, dey vas just in fun. Und dat one-eyed man, 
he come in de next day und he pulled out a sack of 
dust and threw it down on de counter und told Abe 
to pay himself out of it. Und he made me take a 
drink vith him to show I bore him no iU vdl, he said. 
So dat’s all right.” 

Well, as I tell you, seein’ the deal that Moses 
Cohen was gettin’ in Tin Cup, it ain’t any wonder 
that I was clean puzzled to know what made bim so 
bent on stajdn’. Cool an’ slirewd a hand as old Abe 
Silversteui was himself, an’ raised, as you might say, 
in the mines, that store kept him in a pretty con- 
stant sweat. But Abe could put up with a heap, 
because he was makin’ money hand over fist. Not 
but what, as I said before, he was square enough, 
and ’ud help a man on a close call, but it all come 
back to him in dust. If he lost a little now and 
then copperin’ a white man, he al’ays charged it up 
in tradin’ with the Injuns. But Moses didn’t have 
no interest in the store, an’ I reckon that his month’s 
pay wam’t much more than a Chinaman would wash 
out of the bed of North Fork in a day. Not only 
that, but I soon found out that Nosey didn’t care for 
money, noways. Now, I know that that sounds 
queer, but it’s a fact, all the ‘same. He cared no 


90 


MOSES COHEN, THE JEW. 


more for money than I do for last yearns snow. Old 
Abe himself nsed to shrug his shoulders an^ allow 
that his cousin was a durned fool. An’ generous ! 
I ain’t one of those who think that ’cause a Jew’s 
keen in trade he ain’t willin’ to put up when he’s 
called on. ’Cause I’ve seen Jews as were a heap 
sight more liberal than some what called themselves 
Christians. But this fellow, Nosey, where it con- 
cerned any one he took a fancy to, laid over anything 
I ever did see in Jew or Christian. Why, I’m a 
sluice-robber if he didn’t want to give me the very 
coat off his back. It were a brand-new, canvas hunt- 
ing-coat, hned with flannel, an’ the flrst day he got 
it he wore it out to our shanty as proud as a magpie 
with a new feather in its tail. He was al’ays great 
on huntin’. Nosey was, an’ had a fine Winchester an’ 
a breech-loadin’ shot-gun, an’ good dogs, but I never 
heard of his killin’ anything. Exceptin’, to be sure, 
one day he come back into Tin Cup in great excite- 
ment, with the stock of his shot-gun broke short off, 
an’ said that he’d killed a major, meanin’ a badger. 
Some of the boys made believe to arrest him, an’ 
were for takin’ him out to the fort an’ handin’ him 
over to the military, until, of course, it ended in his 
settin’ up the drinks for the crowd. 

Well, when I seen him with that coat, it bein’ 
much too big for him, as everything was, I tipped 
the wink to Jack an’ said : “ That’s a fine coat. Nosey. 
’Pears to me it’s a size too large for you, though. It 
looks as though it ’ud fit me better.” 

I hadn’t no more than got the words out of my 


MOSES COHEN, THE JEW. 


91 


month when Nosey whipped the coat off his hack an^ 
handed it to me. 

Dat’s all right, Bill, yon can have it,” he said, 
lookin' at me as serions as an owl. 

“ Why, yon dnrned little cnss,” said I, do yon 
s'pose I want the coat ? Pnt it on or rU pnt it on 
for yon in a way yon won't hke ! '' For it made me 
hot for him to think I was in earnest, 'specially as I 
conld see that Jack was a-langhin' at me. 

^‘Why, BiU,'' said Nosey, as soft as thongh he 
were trying to sell me the coat, “ vat's the matter ? 
The coat's yonrs if yon vant it, my frient.'' 

^^WeU,” I said, ‘‘I don't want it, so shnt np ahont 
it!'' 

After that, seein' that I was mad. Nosey didn’t 
say anything more, hnt kept foUerin' me ahont, tryin' 
to make it np with me hy helpin' me whenever he 
got a chance, nntil, at last, I conldn't stand ont 
again him an' had to say something pleasant. Then 
he perked np an' was cheerfnl as ever, only I conld 
see he didn't nnderstand ahont my refnsin' the coat, 
an' didn't take no more pleasnre in ownin' it himself. 
Well, when he went hack to Tin Cnp on his caynse, I 
got to ponderin' ahont the little Jew. I conldn't 
make him ont, noways. An' so I tnmed to my 
pardner. Jack, an' I pnt the case to him. Jack was 
mendin' an aparajo, an' when I asked him the qnes- 
tion he pnt down his tools, cnt some tobacco, rolled 
it fine in the palm of his hand, filled his pipe, ht it, 
an' did a little smokin' an' thinkin' afore he an- 
swered. For Jack wam't lil^e some fellows who 


92 MOSES COHEN, THE JEW. 

always have an answer so pat they make you feel like 
a durned fool for not knowin’ it yourself, or some 
others who give you a heap of talk which youVe got 
to pan out in your mind with nothin’ to show for 
your trouble in the end but words. 

‘^Well, I don’t know, Bid,” said my pardnerj 
Nosey hasn’t ever said anything to me about it. 
As you say, it does seem queer that a weak, timid, 
httle fellow hke that should quit selling clothes in 
Baxter Street and come out into this rough country, 
where he’s hable to get hurt every hour of the day. 
It ain’t money, that’s plain. The only way that I 
can put it up is that Ndsey’s got a man’s heart in 
him that ain’t fitted to his queer little body.” 

I warn’t quite sure that I’d got on to Jack’s trail. 
’Cause Jack don’t do your thinkin’ for you ; he just 
sort o’ gives you the general direction an’ lets you 
work it out for yourself. But I’d struck a blaze. 
An’, after thinkin’ it over for awhile, I said : You 
allow that this yere Nosey’s ambitious to ’pear like 
he was one of the boys ? ” 

Not exactly that,” said Jack, sort o’ meditating ; 
he ain’t laying for what people ’U think of him. It’s 
more what he’s trying to be. He’s little and mis- 
shapen, but he admires those who are big and well 
made, and wants to be hke them ; he’s easily scared, 
but he tries to be brave ; he can’t hit anything with 
his gun, but he keeps on trying ; he can’t ride, but 
he’ll break his neck before he quits crossing a horse. 
There’s a heap of things he can’t ever hope to do, 
but he keeps on making a bluff at them just the 


MOSES COHEN, THE JEW. 


93 


same, and lie likes to associate with the sort of men 
that can do them, even at the risk of his skin, and 
though he’d be much better off in Baxter Street sell- 
ing clothes That’s the way I size it up. He wants 
to be a man. And it appears to me that he comes 
nearer the mark than some I’ve met with twice his 
size and natural gifts.” 

Now, when my pardner gives an opinion it’s pretty 
safe to gamble on. An’ what happened a httle later 
showed tol’ably conclusive that he was right about 
this yere Nosey. What happened was just this : 

As I’ve said. Tin Cup was about thirty miles west 
of our camp on the North Fork, an’ about twenty 
miles west of Tin Cup was an Injun agency. The 
reseiwation was a big one, an’ Tin Cup lay just out- 
side the hne. All the best land in that section was 
reservation, an’ the guv’ment had laid out farms for 
the Injuns an’ was aimin’ to civilize them an’ make 
’em raise enough stuff to feed themselves. Mean- 
time, it issued ’em rations to keep ’em from starvin’. 
There was a blacksmith-shop, an’ a carpenter-shop, 
an’ schools for the kids, an’ a church, an’ teachers 
at the agency. An’ about five miles from the agency 
was an army post with some soldiers. But with all 
that they couldn’t keep the smashes from leavin’ 
their fairnis an’ all the rest, an’ goin’ off the reser- 
vation. To be sure, there was al’ays plenty of ’em 
hangin’ ’round the agency, livin’ in the houses the 
guv’ment had built for ’em, leastways they put their 
out-fits in the houses and pitched their wickiups 
alongside, and, on ration-day, the whole tribe was on 


94 


MOSES COHEN, THE JEW. 


hand. Nevertheless, every spring there were aPays 
more Injuns camped on Camas Prairie, which was 
twenty-five miles south of the reservation, than there 
were on it. It were a sort of habit with ’em every 
spring to hght out for the prairie to dig camas — that 
is, the squaws ’ud dig camas, while the bucks ’ud 
have horse-races, an’ hunt, an’ fish, an’ gamble away 
what they’d got from the guv’ment. WeU, when 
settlers commenced to come in to that part of the 
country they nat’rally objected to the Injuns cornin’ 
there, ’specially as they tore down fences, an’, every 
once in a while, ’ud run off some of their cattle. 
Then sometimes there’d be a row an’ an Injun ’ud 
get killed j then the Injuns ’ud get ugly an’ threaten 
to clean out the country. So, what with one word 
an’ another, the troops at the fort ’ud have to go 
down there, an’ there’d be a genePl Injun scare all 
over that section, an’ the outlyin’ settlers and miners 
’ud be warned, an’ every feUow ’ud work with his 
rifie mighty handy. But, after awhile, we got sort 
o’ used to hearin’ that the Injuns was on the war- 
path in Camas Prairie, an’ so we didn’t take much 
stock in the rumors, ’specially as those feUows over 
there al’ays had a heap o’ hay an’ grain to sell, an’ it 
was mighty convenient for ’em to have the cavalry 
come down there for a month or two an’ eat it at 
guv’ment rates. 

But, finally, one summer — that was the summer 
that Nosey first turned up in Tin Cup — t hin gs got 
so hot over in Camas Prairie that the guv’ment at 
Washington was forced to take a hand, an’, after 


MOSES COHEN, THE JEW. 


95 


sendin’ out commissioners to have a talk with the 
Injuns, an^ one thing an’ another, orders was issued 
that the whole tribe should go on the reservation an’ 
stay there. WeU, that was aU right, ’cause it were 
gettin’ late in the year an’ the grass was mostly gone 
off the hiHs, an’, after the first frost struck the val- 
leys, every siwash was back on the reservation, an’ 
never a word to say again it. But the following 
spring, just as soon as the grass begun to turn green 
an’ the cayuses commenced to get the wrinkles out 
o’ their hides, the Injuns were at their old game, 
shdin’ out. I reec’lect well, now that I look back 
on it, that the snow warn’t fairly off the ground 
afore they were mighty restless, a-ridin’ around an’ 
more impudent an’ ugly than I’d ever seen ’em afore. 
Of course, after winter fairly broke, rumors ’bout 
their goin’ on the war-path begun flyin’ around 
thicker than ever j but we didn’t pay no attention to 
’em. Till one day, ’long toward the middle of April, 
when me an’ my pardner was workin’ in our claim, 
we seen a fellow come ridin’ down the trail that led 
to the river, as though the devil were after him. He 
pulled up when he seen us, an’ hollered to us. WeU, 
I dropped my pick an’ went down to the ford, where 
he was lettin’ his horse driuk, to see what was up. 
I recognized him for a miner that belonged at Eagle 
Gulch. He had just come from Tin Cup, an’ he told 
me that the Injuns had broke out over in Camas 
Prairie in dead earnest, an’ were murderin’ the set- 
tlers. 

‘‘ You had better look out for yourselves, an’ get 


96 


MOSES COHEN, THE JEW. 


into Tin Cup,” he said, ^‘an^ let everybody know. 
Pm goin’ up to Eaglets to pass the word.” 

An’ with that he got an extra pull on his cinch an’ 
was in the saddle an’ off afore I could get anything 
more out of him. Well, me an’ Jack, after talkin’ 
it over for awhile, allowed there wam’t anything in 
it. An’ as for pullin’ up stakes and loafin’ ’round 
Tin Cup, now that the weather were just set for 
workin’, I reckon neither of us give it a thought. 
But later on, toward nightfall, a white man that had 
married a squaw an’ was hvin’ just over the divide, 
on Boulder Creek, come to our shanty, an’ told us 
that it were a true deal j that a lot o’ young bucks 
had got loaded with whiskey over on Camas Prairie, 
an’ had laid for a settler that they had a grudge 
against for killin’ an’ Injun the year before, an’ had 
taken him in. After that they’d had a big pow-wow 
an’ persuaded the rest of the tribe that was off the 
reservation that the soldiers ’ud shoot ’em all, an’ 
they might as well go on the war-path an’ clean out 
the country. So that were the beginning of it. 
What followed ain’t pleasant to teU about and ’ud 
do no good in teUin’, exceptin’ in so far as it con- 
cerns what I was goin’ to say about this yere Jew, 
Moses Cohen. 

When me an’ Jack heard what this squaw-man 
told us, we begun to think that maybe the Injuns 
meant business, after all. ’Cause, ha\in’ an Injun 
woman for a wife, this feUow was tolerably well 
posted on what was goin’ on among ’em. He allowed 
that there was two or three hundred bucks out, an’ 


MOSES COHEN, THE JEW, 


97 


as there was only one troop of cavalry on their trail, 
the soldiers was pretty hable to get hcked, if they 
tackled ^em. It would take a week to get reinforce- 
ments from below, an’ in that time the Injuns could 
make it pretty hot for the settlers, an’ after that ’ud 
most likely make for the mountains. He advised 
us to get into Tin Cup while we had time. But still, 
me and my pardner, after ponderin’ over the matter, 
concluded that we warn’t goin’ to throw up our 
hands at the very first bluff, an’ that we’d wait awhile 
an’ see what turned up. So the next day we con- 
trived a sort of a fort, to be fixed for the Injuns in 
case we should get jumped. Our claim was on the 
east side of North Fork, on the shoulder of a hill 
where a little creek made in. There was a level 
stretch of bottom land, about half a mile wide, 
between us and the river, which run close up to the 
hills on the west side. The trail from Tin Cup come 
in from the west, down the opposite hiU, which was 
pretty steep an’ timbered with pine, crossed the 
l3ottom, an’ passed near our shanty up into the 
mountains toward Eagle’s. There was an old aban- 
doned claim at the foot of our hiU, where some 
fellows had run in a good-sized tunnel, an’ this was 
where we made the fort. It looked out on the river 
bottom, so that we could face anything cornin’ from 
the west, an’ had the bluffs at our back. We could 
get water in the tunnel by diggin’ down a few feet ; 
in fact, there was more water than anything else. 
But we cut some logs an’ made a barricade in the 
shape of a horseshoe in front of the tunnel, an’ built 
7 


98 


MOSES COHEN, THE JEW. 


a little shanty inside it, so as to live dry. Then we 
cached onr grub an’ stuff in the tnnnel an’ went ahead 
workin’ our claim, keepin’ one eye open for develop- 
ments. 

They weren’t long cornin’. It sort o’ got rumored 
around that we’d fortified on the North Fork, an’ 
every day or two some prospector or trapper ’ud 
come in an’ conclude to stay with us. An’ every 
time a fellow ’ud come in we’d hear some new yarn 
of the deviltry those Injuns was playin’. They’d 
cleaned out Camas Prairie, killin’ a good many of 
the settlers, men, women, an’ children, only some of 
the women they carried off with ’em, and had run 
off all the stock, an’ burnt the houses. Then the 
soldiers had had a fight with them, an’ bein’ outnum- 
bered five to one, had been pretty near wiped out. 
Then we heard of some Chinamen that was minin’ 
on the North Fork, about forty miles up the river, 
bein’ took in. Then a party of miners from Eagle’s, 
that had passed our place goin’ into Tin Cup, was 
jumped on the mesa about fifteen miles this side of 
town, an’ only about half of ’em got back to tell 
about it. So then we knew that we’d got to play a 
lone hand, an’ it wouldn’t be long afore the game 
begun. By that time there were thirteen of us livin’ 
in the fort, ten men, two women, an’ a kid. One of 
the women was the wife of a rancher, the other was 
— well, she come down with the miners from Eagle’s. 
We sort o’ naturally made Gentleman Jack captain. 
An’ talk about your captains, there ain’t many of 
’em can lay over Gentleman J ack, if you hear me ! 


MOSES COHEN, THE JEW. 


99 


He just got things straightened out in that fort in 
no time 5 reg’lar army disciphne. We took turns at 
keepin’ look-out, an’ every fellow knowed just what 
he had to do. An’ Jack, he was up an’ around night 
an’ day j ’peared to me like he never did go to sleep. 
Along about now we begun to see Injuns skirmishin’ 
around on their cayuses on the other side of the 
river, just one or two at a time, scouts, I reckon they 
was, ’cause we knew their main camp was back in 
the mountains, with the soldiers gatherin’ in on their 
trail. For two or three days they’d just take an 
occasional shot at us, then finally, one momin’ early, 
about twenty-five or thirty of ’em come down to the 
river an’ made a reg’lar attack on us. I don’t 
reec’lect much about that fight, ’cept that the Injuns 
did a heap of hoUerin’ an’ shootin’ from the first, an’ 
we lay low accordin’ to Jack’s orders, an’ never 
opened our mouths or fii-ed a gun. Then the smashes 
bragged each other on, bein’ pretty confident from 
havin’ got away with the soldiers in their big 
fight, aij.’ havin’ everything their own way over on 
Camas Prairie. And so they come on, snakin’ 
through the grass an’ behind rocks an’ trees, an’ 
blazin’ away at the logs, and bla’guardin’ us, an’ 
darin’ us to come out an’ fight. And stiU Jack says, 
“Wait, boys, wait! ” tiU I’m free to confess that it 
shook my nerve a trifle, an’ I wondered whether my 
pardner warn’t playin’ it a httle too fine. Till at 
last the red-skins must have ’lowed that we were 
skulkin’ back in the tunnel, for they started to cross 
the clearin’ that we’d made for a hundred yards or 


100 


MOSES COHEN, THE JEW. 


SO around the fort. Then Jack says, very quiet : 

Now, let ’em have it ! ” and you bet your life we 
did! And out of the twenty-five or thirty that 
crossed the river, six of ’em never went back at aU, 
an’ a good many of them that took to cover carried 
lead along with them. We was mostly all armed 
with Winchester repeaters, an’ there wai-n’t none of 
us that couldn’t a-hit our man at double the distance. 
But ammunition was mighty scarce with us, an’ 
though it were a bold game that Jack played, it were 
a winnin’ one 5 for it made the Injuns mighty sick, 
an’ after that they just lay ofi in the brush across 
the river an’ kept us from showin’ our heads. We 
had one man killed and two wounded in that scrim- 
mage 5 one feUow hit in the leg, an’ the other in the 
arm. An’ that’s where Gentleman Jack showed up 
again, for the way he clapped what he called “ turn- 
keys ” on them fellows an’ stopped the bleeding was 
a wonder even to me, who knowed him so well. 
But, as I tell you, there warn’t nothin’ that that 
pardner o’ mine wam’t ekal to. 

Well, after that fight, there warn’t nothin’ to do 
but lay low in that fort an’ watch the grub an’ 
ammunition get scarce, an’ the Injuns peggin’ away 
at us every chance they got. On the second day we 
was down to beans an’ hard-tack, an’ what was worse, 
only ten cartridges left to each man. In the early 
part of the deal, Jack had managed to send a mes- 
sage into Tin Cup, by a friendly half-breed, telhn’ 
how we was fixed an’ askin’ for ammunition an’ grub. 
But either the half-breed had gone back on us, or 


MOSES COHEN, THE JEW. 


101 


else, if anybody had tried to get to ns, the Injuns 
had taken ^em in, bein’ between us an’ Tin Cup. At 
any rate, nothin’ come of it, an’ things begun to look 
pretty blue, until finally, on the fourth day, we was 
down to bed-rock, an’ it were a question whether we 
had better stay where we was an’ get killed, or slide 
out at night an’ take our chances. Jack was for 
stayin’, principally, I reckon, on account of the 
women an’ the kid, an’ he prevailed in the end, 
though there was a heap o’ buckin’ again it, an’ 
one feUow he skipped out in the night an’ lost 
his scalp for his pains. But we was pretty blue, 
an’ that’s a fact, and it sort o’ come to be under- 
stood that if nothin’ turned up the next day we’d 
have to mosey out o’ that, an’ trust to luck in the 
brush. 

Now it happened that the next momin’ it was my 
tuim to be on watch. An’ just before sunrise I seen 
somethin’ cornin’ up what we called the river trad j 
it was a mighty rough trad that led along the river 
down to where the North Fork puts in to the Sweet- 
water, an’ it was seldom used ’cause it was so rough 
an’ dangerous. At first, I thought it was two stray 
ponies, then I seen that it were a man on a cayuse 
leadin’ a pack. I roused out Jack, an’ as soon as he 
seen what was cornin’ he called the rest of the boys, 
very quiet. 

Now,” says he, “ that’s for us. An’ half of us’d 
have to go out an’ help bring it in. We’d have to 
play Injun on ’em for ad we’re worth, ’cause we’re 
not fixed for a fight, and this is our last chance. 


102 


MOSES COHEN, THE JEW. 


Bill,” he says to me, ‘‘ you stay here and look out 
for things, and cover us as well as you can.” 

With that, he an’ four others shd out by the mouth 
of the tunnel an’ begun to snake through the grass. 
There warn’t a sign of the Injuns movin’ yet, an’ I 
begun to hope that the little mist that hung over the 
water would keep ’em from seein’ what was goin’ on. 

Now, I’ve been in many a tight place in my life, 
but I’m free to confess that when I stood in that fort 
with those women behind me an’ them Injuns in 
front, an’ Jack between us a-layin’ for that pack, 
which, as he said, was our last chance, I never had a 
closer call, an’ I never want to ! As I watched the 
gi’ass a-movin’ where the boys was creepin’ up on to 
the horses, an’ the stranger a-comin’ along, as it 
seemed to me, slower than the wrath of God, the 
sweat just broke out on my forehead hke I’d been 
usin’ my pick in the middle of August. At last the 
horses got down off the bluff into the bottom, an’ 
I was just drawin’ a long breath, when suddenly I 
heard a noise I was used to, hke the shuttin’ of a 
door, an’ a httle wreath of smoke come out of the 
pines across the river. At the same moment I seen 
the feUow on the cayuse drop off. Then, quick as 
a flash, our boys was on their feet an’ had grabbed 
the pack-horse afore it had a chance to break away, 
an’ begun to run it to the fort. Meantime we on 
the inside commenced blazin’ away wherever we saw 
a puff o’ smoke — ^for the Injuns had opened out all 
along the river — ^while some of us threw down the 
ends of the logs to let the cayuse in. Well, for just 


MOSES COHEN, THE JEW. 


103 


about a minute it seemed like bell bad broke loose. 
Tbe Injuns charged across the river, yeUin’ an^ 
sbootin’ an' tryin' to cut tbe boys off, an' me an' the 
other fellows in the fort yelled back an' made it hot 
for 'em ; until all of a sudden in come the cayuse, 
with three of the boys fairly liftin' it along, an' fell 
dead inside the logs, shot plumb to pieces, an' one of 
the boys on top of it. Then come Jack with a man 
on his shoulders, an' down he tumbles. An' that 
were all, for the other feUow never did come back. 
Then just as quick as it had begun the whole thing 
ended. The Injuns seein' that they couldn’t head 
us off, slipped back across the river, an' we let 'em 
go without another shot, for the durned good reason 
that there warn't a cartridge left in out belts. 

For a minute we just stood as we was, gettin' our 
breath. Then Jack sat up an' tore a piece off his shirt 
an' made a turnkey " for his arm, whereby I knew 
he was hit, though he didn't say anything. Then he 
begun givin' orders as quiet as ever. He made the 
boys undo the pack an' each one fill his belt with 
cartridges, the first thing. Then he looked at the fel- 
low that had fallen over the cajmse, an' seein' that he'd 
only got a scalp wound he tied it up for him, give 
him a drink an' set him on his feet as good as new. 
After that he straightened things out in the fort, had 
the cayuse butchered an' hung up, and the place 
cleaned as weU as could be done, an' the grub an' 
cartridges that had come in the pack stored away in 
the tunnel. An' aU the time I seen that he had a 
queer sort o' look in his face, a look I hadn't ever 


104 


MOSES COHEN, THE JEW. 


seen there afore, but I set it down to bis wound 
hurtin’ biru • an^ we was all too busy to ask questions. 
As for the fellow be bad brought in on bis back, Jack 
had laid him in the tunnel with a coat thrown over 
him, an’ I took it for granted that it was the last one 
of the boys that had gone out with him, an’ I knew, 
without inquirin’, that he was dead. It wam’t till 
we’d got everything in shape for the Injuns in case 
they come back at us again, an’ there warn’t any- 
thing else to do, that I begun to speculate on what 
had become of the fellow that had brought us the 
pack, an’ that’d been dropped oif his horse at the 
first clatter. I was hopin’ to myself that he’d been 
kdled so that the Injuns wouldn’t have no show to 
work their deviltry on him. An’ I wondered who it 
could have been, for a man like that who’d bring a 
pack over the river trail must have had a heap of 
nerve, let alone bringin’ it over thirty miles of coun- 
try that was swarmin’ with hostile Injuns, an’ him 
single-handed an’ alone ! I was just about turnin’ 
around to find Jack an’ ask him something about it, 
everythiug bein’ done, when my pardner come up 
an’ laid his hand on my arm, an’ says in a low tone. 
Come here, Bdl.” 

An’ with that he took me into the tunnel, an’ kneel- 
in’ down alongside of the man he’d fetched in, he 
raised the coat very gently with one hand an’ with 
the other motioned for me to look at the face he’d 
uncovered. Then I seen that it was Nosey. 

* * * # # # * 

How we stood those Injuns off for two more days 
by reason of that pack, an’ was relieved on the third 


MOSES COHEN, THE JEW. 


105 


day by a company of soldiers, don’t much signify. 
But when at last the Injuns was Licked an’ put back 
on the reservation, an’ me an’ my pardner went into 
Tin Cup to do some tradin’, we heard how it were 
that Nosey had come out to us alone. It seemed 
that the half-breed had carried the news into Tin 
Cup about out* bein’ corraled on North Fork an’ out 
of supplies, an’ they’d organized a party to go to our 
relief, an’ Nosey went along with it ; but the Injuns 
had turned ’em back afore they’d gone ten miles. 
. Then Nosey tried to get ’em to go again, but they 
’lowed that we’d been wiped out by that time, an’ 
wouldn’t risk it. Then for two or three days Nosey 
couldn’t talk about nothin’ except Gentleman Jack 
bein’ a friend of his, an’ how he ought to go out an’ 
help him. An’ so he kept frettin’ an’ worrjrin’ about 
it, till finally he said he’d got to go, an’ if no one ’ud 
go with him, he’d go alone. So he made up a pack 
an’ started. An’ the boys laughed at him an’ made 
bets as to how many yards he’d get afore he turned 
back. For he was as white as a sheet when he got 
into the saddle, Abe said, an’ nobody counted on his 
gettin’ out o’ sight o’ town. 

‘‘But then,” said Abe, shrugging his shoulders, 
“ my cousin Moses alvays vas a derned fool ! ” 

But it’s pretty near as I tell you. When my pard- 
ner, Gentleman Jack, gives an opinion, it’s tol’able 
safe to gamble on. An’ I’m thinkin’ that he were 
just about right when he ’lowed that there were 
many a fellow with twice the size an’ nat’ral gifts, 
that didn’t come as near bein’ a man as this yere 
Moses Cohen. 


CAST AWAY. 


A LOVE STOEY. 


Belated by Miss Margaret Delajield. 


I SHOULD like it understood at the outset that I do 
not altogether approve of many things that occurred 
in the course of the adventures which I am about 
to narrate. In the first place, I do not consider it 
proper for ladies to have adventures. Not, let me 
hasten to say, that it was due to any frivolous or in- 
decorous trait in Eleanor’s character, nor I trust is it 
necessary for me to add, in mine^ that certain extra- 
ordinary and deplorable events interfered with that 
quiet, even routine of hfe which it becomes a woman 
to lead. All of our trials came from my niece’s un- 
fortunate fancy for Sir Charles Brent-Jones. Sir 
Charles was a man of more than double Eleanor’s 
age (he must have been at least thirty-eight), and in 
no way handsome ; for, although he was tall, he was 
stoop-shouldered, his blonde hair was scanty (in fact, 
he was bald on the top of his head), and the lower 
hds of his cold, gray eyes were puffed and wrinkled, 
his hands and feet were large, and his movements 
slow and heavy. To be sure, he had charming man- 


CAST AWAY. 


107 


ners and, having traveled all over the world, was a 
very interesting conversationahst. He was reported 
to have large estates in England, by those who in- 
troduced him into our society, and altogether was 
considered a very desirable person. But I did not 
hke him. He impressed me as lacking sincerity. 
Although, as I have said, he had charming manners 
when it pleased him to exert himself, more than once 
I discovered occasions when he seemed to think that, 
because he was a titled Enghshman, he was exempt 
from the ordinary rules of politeness. For instance, 
I have knovm him to attend a dinner-pai’ty attired in 
a rough tweed suit (though not at my house, be it 
understood), carry his hands in his pockets, and 
otherwise deport himself iu the presence of ladies as 
though San Francisco was a Rocky Mountain min- 
ing-camp. Furthermore, although I am aware that 
it is the custom abroad for men to expect to receive 
money with the woman whom they honor with their 
choice as wife, I have a prejudice for our American 
custom of a man marrying a woman for herself 
alone ; consequently I did not like Sir Charles’s dis- 
ingenuous interest in the financial prospects of every 
young lady whom he met. Finally, I dishked him 
very cordially from the moment that I knew he had 
made Eleanor care for him without fii*st asking my 
permission. For it was mere child’s play for a man 
lik e him, equipped with his knowledge of the world 
and intellectual attainments, to win the interest of 
an ingenuous girl like Eleanor, who had just emerged 
from school and had scarcely spoken to half a dozen 


108 


CAST AWAY. 


men in her life. Of course he knew perfectly well 
what he was doing from the start, and it was his 
duty as a gentleman to come to me first and ask 
whether his suit would he acceptable. It certainly 
was not acceptable. And when Eleanor, one day, 
laid her poor, pretty, silly head on my shoulder and 
told me, with hot cheeks and moist eyes, that Sir 
Charles had asked her to be his ^vife, I was greatly 
dismayed that the matter should have gone so far. 
In a long interview that I immediately had with Sir 
Charles, I explained to him that the child was too 
young to thmk yet of marrying ; that my brother 
(who was a commander in the navy, and away at the 
time) was her guardian and trustee of her fortune, 
and that without his consent I could not permit Elea- 
nor to enter into any engagement of the sort. 

Sir Charles pleaded his cause most eloquently, and 
I must say that I found it difficult to maintain my 
stand against liis persuasiveness. I then made up 
my mind that the wisest course for me to pursue was 
to take Eleanor away from the influence of so suc- 
cessful a wooer. I determined that travel was the 
best test for the permanency of the impression he 
had made, besides being desirable to widen her ex- 
perience of men. I made Honolulu my first destina- 
tion, for the twofold reason that I had never been to 
the islands, and that my brother’s ship was expected 
there shortly, and I was anxious to have him share 
my responsibility. It was with the greatest difficulty 
that I prevented Sir Charles from accompanying us, 
and, in fact, when I took my departure I found that 


CAST AWAY. 


109 


I had promised him that if Eleanor was of the same 
mind on our return, I would put no further obstacle 
in the way of theii* being engaged. 

It was with a feeling of relief at having escaped 
for the present the anxiety and worry which this 
affair had cost me, that I left San Francisco for Ha- 
waii. We reached Honolulu in safety, and shortly 
after our arrival had the satisfaction of seeing my 
brother's ship drop anchor in the harbor. Being the 
captain’s niece, and young, pretty, and bright, Elea- 
nor immediately became a centre of attraction for aU 
the officers. In fact, ordinarily I should have been 
afraid that so much attention would have turned the 
dear child’s head, but, under the circumstances, I was 
rather pleased than otherwise. It distracted her 
thoughts from Sir Charles. At first she had been 
inclined to forego all the pleasures of hfe in thoughts 
of him, but the novelty of her surroundings, and par- 
ticularly the devotion of these gallant sailors, gradu- 
ally allured her from her reveries, until, to my great 
comfort, she became once more her sweet, light- 
hearted seK. At the same time I could not discover 
that any one of these gentlemen was favored beyond 
another. With a single exception, Eleanor treated 
all of her admirers with impartial kindness, manag- 
ing them with a tact and discretion which rather sur- 
prised me. This single exception was a young lieuten- 
ant, named Saxon, to whom she had taken a marked 
dishke. Why, I do not know, as he was a taU, ath- 
letic young fellow, with a handsome face and bright, 
modest ways, and was really the one I hked best of 


110 


CAST AWAY. 


all. My brother, too, considered him one of the finest 
officers aboard his ship, and took an interest in him 
that was almost fatherly, and I think it annoyed him 
that Eleanor should have chosen his protege for such 
capricious treatment. We seemed to see more of Mr. 
Saxon’s society than that of the other officers, despite 
EleanoEs antipathy, but this was probably due to his 
being a favorite of my brother’s and mine ; for Mr. 
Saxon had plenty of spirit and showed himself quite 
independent of Eleanor’s favor. 

Alter nearly three weeks of this pleasant hfe, my 
brother received orders to proceed with his ship to 
Panama, and thence to San Francisco. I decided 
then to return home directly and await his arrival 
and action in regard to Sir Charles Brent- Jones. 
Much to my happiness, Mr. Saxon received orders by 
the same mail detaching him from the Revenge, and 
ordering him to special duty at Washington. My 
brother was also much pleased at leaving us in charge 
of such a good escort, and procuring passage for us 
on a swift-sailing merchant ship, which was just on 
the point of starting for home, he bade us farewell. 
Of course I could not expect Eleanor to share my 
unalloyed satisfaction at having Mr. Saxon for a com- 
panion during our long voyage back. Still, when I 
informed her, she merely shrugged her shoulders 
slightly at the prospect, and then probably forgot it 
in the joy of rejoining Sir Charles, for I never saw 
her in such gay spirits as she was that afternoon. 
Our rooms on the merchantman were veiy good, and 
we being the only passengers, everything was done 


CAST AWAY. 


Ill 


for our accommodation. Mr. Saxon proved himself 
invaluable, doing everything in his power to make 
us comfortable and the voyage pleasant. For nearly 
three weeks we had lovely weather and a fair wind, 
and each day we congratulated ourselves on getting 
home so agreeably and expeditiously. But, alas, how 
little can we poor mortals teU what is in store for us ! 

On the twentieth day, I think it was, after leaving 
Honolulu, the wind died away and our ship lay in a 
profound calm, rolling indolently on the long swells. 
The air was close, oppressive, and singularly still, 
and that evening the sun set in a strange red haze. 
I remember now that the captain seemed uneasy at 
supper, but my ignorance of weather indications en- 
abled me to go to bed in peace of mind. Toward 
morning I was awakened by the increased motion of 
the vessel, and, sitting up in my berth, I coidd hear 
the sound of the waters dashing against the ship’s 
side, and the noise of the wind. Knowing that it 
must be storming, I tried to go to sleep again, and 
succeeded for a short time. But when I again awoke, 
about seven o’clock, the storm seemed more violent 
than ever. I now began to feel nervous and arose 
and tried to dress, but headache and faintness, caused 
by the unusual movement, overcame me, and I was 
obliged to lie down once more. Aiter awhile Elea- 
nor came to my state-room. She was wrapped in a 
waterproof, and her hair was wet. She told me that 
she had been on deck, reckless child that she was ! 
and gave me an enthusiastic description of the grand- 
eur of the sight, for which I was too sick and fright- 


112 


CAST AWAY. 


ened to care. I was relieved to know that Mr. Saxon 
had been up most of the night, and had sent word to 
me not to be alarmed. Eleanor said that the gale 
had come on about midnight from the north, and 
that we were now running before it under close-reefed 
topsails. If Eleanor had been a boy, she certainly 
would have been a sailor. She had picked up enough 
seamanship already to have a very intelligent idea of 
the state of affairs, and she actually seemed to enjoy 
aU this hurly-burly of wind and water. It was fort- 
unate that it was so. The noise made by the deluge 
of waters hurled against the ship’s side, the creaking 
and groaning of the timbers, and the howhng of the 
wind became at last unendurable in my state-room, 
and, fear dispelling my illness, with Eleanor’s assist- 
ance I managed to dress and make my way into the 
main cabin. Here Mr. Saxon tied a steamer-chair 
securely to a table, and I was made as comfortable 
as the rolling and tossing of the ship would allow. 
Eleanor remained with me throughout the day, and 
Mr. Saxon, looking hke a handsome young Neptune, 
came down at intervals to see how we were faring 
and give us tidings of the storm. On one of these 
occasions, Eleanor asked to be permitted to go on 
deck once more, but Mr. Saxon, after a moment’s re- 
flection, replied : 

I don’t think you had better attempt it.” 

To which Eleanor responded, haughtily, ^^Of 
course.” 

I saw Mr. Saxon’s face change slightly, because I 
happened to be looking at him, and I was annoyed 


CAST AWAY. 


113 


at Eleanor^s manner toward him, when suddenly, to 
my surprise, she held out her hand, and said, just as 
she used to say to me when a child, “ I am sorry.^^ 
The color instantly came into the young man’s face, 
and he seemed about to make some reply, but, chang- 
ing his mind, he bowed, relinquished her hand, and 
went back on deck. 

All that day we continued to drive before the tem- 
pest, which kept increasing in fury, while every now 
and then a fierce blast swept over the ship as though 
it would blot us out of the face of the deep. Neither 
Eleanor nor I went to bed that night, but caught 
such sleep as we could w'here we were. It is strange 
how people will sleep under the most trying circum- 
stances. I was positive that I should not close my 
eyes, -and yet I slept most of the night, dimly con- 
scious at times of our peril and of Mr. Saxon’s occa- 
sional appearances. Once I heard him talking to 
Eleanor. 

“We are going to heave to,” he said j “ the captain 
is afraid of being driven too far out of his course.” 

“ Is that right ? ” said Eleanor. 

“Yes,” said Mr. Saxon; “so long as the ship is 
tight it is better to heave to. We have not been 
able to take an observation for some time, and we 
are not precisely certain where we are.” 

“ You are not concealing anything from me ? ” she 
said. 

“ No,” replied Mr. Saxon ; “ I know you to be brave 
as weU as generous, and you shall be informed of 
everjdhing.” 

8 


114 


CAST AWAY. 


‘^But you,” she said, “you are wearing yourself 
out. Is it necessary for you to he on deck aU the 
time ? lam sure you would not be if it were not for 
us.” 

He laughed and said : “Perhaps not. But it makes 
your aunt more comfortable, and I promised Captain 
Delafield to take good care of you, you know. Be- 
sides, I am used to it 3 it is reaUy not worth a thought.” 

Then I slept again. Perhaps it was selfish of me, 
but I was more comfortable knowing that our sailor 
friend was watching on deck. In the morning the 
gale had increased to a hurricane, with the ship still 
running before it. Although they had “hove to” 
during the night — as I could teU. by the increased 
heights and depths to which we were tossed — for 
some reason, which Eleanor did not explain to me, 
even if she knew, we were again running before the 
wind into southern latitudes. That day was but a 
repetition of the preceding one, excepting that toward 
sunset Mr. Saxon brought us the welcome news that 
the strength of the storm was broken. At eight 
o’clock, he told us that the ship was bearing up for 
her proper course, and that he thought we might go 
to bed without further apprehension and get a good 
night’s rest. The noise and motion, however, was 
still so great that I contented myself with lying down 
in my clothes, and soon feU sound asleep. How long 
I slept, I do not know. I was awakened by a sense 
of something having happened, my heart was beat- 
ing loudly, and I was trembling. StiU the ship 
seemed to be moving the same as usual, although 


CAST AWAY. 


115 


not SO violently, and the wind had gone down. But 
the next instant I was almost thrown from my berth 
by a terrible shock ; this was followed by a crash, 
and then the vessel stood perfectly still and remained 
so. Oh, Heaven ! the soul-sickening horror of that 
change from motion to immovability, with the waves 
stiU thundering against us ! Shall I ever forget it ? 
With a shriek I sprang from my berth. Just as I 
did so, my door was burst open and Mr. Saxon ap- 
peared, holding Eleanor about the waist. She was 
in her night-dress. 

“ Come instantly ! ” he said. 

I knew then that the ship was sinking. 

I tried to get my shoes, but Mr. Saxon caught me 
with his imoccupied arm, strong man that he was, 
and fairly carried me out of the cabin. How we 
ever got upon deck I do not know. Nor can I de- 
scribe the dark, wet turmoil of broken masts and 
tangled rigging, crashing timbers and raging waters, 
which presented itself to us as we emerged from the 
companion-way. Half -lifting, half-dragging us, some- 
times thrown down by a deluge of water, but never 
letting go of us, Mr. Saxon finally brought us to the 
highest part of the sloping deck, and here, with some 
of the ropes which trailed about, he tied us to the 
rigging. 

“Keep up your courage,” he panted j “they are 
getting out the boats.” 

In fact, as I wiped the salt-water from my eyes, 
I saw the blackness of a boat agaiust the stars. It 
was hanging from the davits, filled with men, while 


116 


CAST AWAY. 


another was being shoved ^ong the decks to the lee 
or lower side of the ship. But before I conld see 
more, a larger wave than usual towered above us 
and then fell upon us, bruising and drenching me, 
and nearly dragging me from my bonds. When I 
recovered my breath, I saw that my poor darling 
child^s tliin night-dress had been almost entirely torn 
from her. Like a martyr-saint tied there to the ship’s 
side in the starlight, she stood, with her face buried 
in her hands and her long black hair streaming about 
her bare, shining shoulders. Mr. Saxon, who had 
been dashed down by the wave, struggled to his feet, 
and had his coat off and wrapped around her in a 
second. 

“ Poor little girl ! ” he cried ; “ poor little girl ! ” 

And with that he started for the cabin-stairs. Di- 
\ining his intention, Eleanor looked up and ex- 
claimed : 

“ For God’s sake, don’t go down there, Mr. Saxon ! 
Don’t go ! Oh, don’t go ! ” 

And I also gasped forth, Oh, no, no ! Don’t 
leave us ! ” 

But if he heard us in the thunder of the waters 
and grinding timbers, he did not heed us, and dis- 
appeared in the darkness. With him all hope and 
courage left me, and I began to weep bitterly, for 
there was something in his calm voice and masterful 
ways that held me up in the face of death itself. 
While as for Eleanor, her face dropped in her hands 
once more and she prayed aloud that he might come 
back. Then, as many minutes passed, like hours. 


CAST AWAY. 


117 


and still he did not come, a new and nearer terror 
came upon me. Both of the boats were now in the 
water, loaded with the vessel’s crew, and one of them 
had left the vessel’s side. I had heard nothing of 
the captain j the crew were apparently acting for 
themselves, and evidently we were forgotten. There 
were only a few men left on deck and in the rigging, 
and I screamed to them, in the name of Heaven, not 
to desei*t us. But they appeared panic-stricken and 
threw themselves over the side into the remaining 
boat, and none paid any attention to us. Then I 
called to Eleanor to untie herself, while I worked 
desperately at the knots which held me. But Elea- 
nor made no effort, only prayed that Mr. Saxon 
might come back, while my fingers were so numb 
and the ropes were so wet and stiff that I could do 
nothing. At that moment of supreme agony and 
despair, Mr. Saxon staggered on deck with some 
blankets on liis arm. I shrieked to him and j^ointed 
to the last boat leaving the ship. He stopped and 
looked, and then, with an oath, sprang into the rig- 
ging and hailed the crew. For an instant there ap- 
peared to be some confusion among the men, as 
though some of them had stopped rowing, but the 
next moment the boat was swallowed up in the gloom. 
Whether it had been sunk or simply disappeared 
from my view, I never knew. With Mr. Saxon’s 
voice ringing in my ears, as he hurled cui’ses at the 
cowards, everything grew confused before my eyes 
and I fainted. 

When I came back to consciousness, I found that- 


118 


CAST AWAY. 


I had been wrapped in a blanket and removed to a 
more sheltered part of the deck. Eleanor, also 
wrapped in a blanket, held my head in her lap and 
was chafing my hands, while Mr. Saxon leaned over 
me, putting some brandy between my lips. The 
waves seemed to have subsided somewhat, for they 
no longer broke over the bulwarks, and dawn had 
come, lighting up the dismal week. 

Is there any hope ? ” I whispered. 

Yes,” replied Mr. Saxon; “see if you can sit up. 
You are so cold, the exertion will help you.” 

With his and Eleanor’s help, I struggled to my 
feet, although I was so benumbed I could scarcely 
stand. 

“ Do you see that dark line over there ? ” he con- 
tinued. “ That is land. The ship has been thrown 
upon a reef and is lying in a cleft of rocks, which 
has kept it from going to pieces. I am captain of 
her now, my first command,” he said, trying to smile, 
though his face was haggard and there were great, 
dark circles under his eyes, and if you vdll promise 
to obey me, I think I can promise to put you on dry 
ground once more, safe and sound.” 

As though to warrant his comforting words, the 
sun at this moment sent its first, level beams across 
the gray waters, bringing light and warmth to our 
chilled bodies. Thus cheered, I took Mr. Saxon’s 
hand, and, being still weak, began to cry a little from 
the revulsion of feeling, and said : “ What should we 
have done without you ? ” 

“It is too soon to ask that,” he replied, kindly; 


CAST AWAY. 


119 


but now, if you and Miss Miller will try and get 
dry and warm, I will see what can be done.” 

Mr. Saxon,” said Eleanor, will you promise me 
one thing f ” 

Yes,” he said, I wiU.” 

Promise me, then,” said Eleanor, “ that you will 
not again put yourseK in any danger away from us. 
You see, I am selfish,” she added, with a smile as pale 
as his own had been j “ we cannot afford to lose our 
captain.” 

I will remember what you say,” he answered, and 
turning away, immediately went down into the cabin, 
somewhat to Eleanor’s (I thought unnecessary) un- 
easiness. Presently he returned, bringing all oiu* 
clothing, a most welcome sight. The water, he said, 
just reached our state-room doors, the lee side of the 
cabin being entirely flooded. Leaving us to make 
our toilet, he then looked over the wreck ve^ care- 
fully, and determined that, unless another storm 
came up, there was no immediate danger of its sink- 
ing under our feet. Being satisfied of that, he waded 
into the cabin pantry and brought out aU the food 
he could find, and we breakfasted on the deck. It 
is surprising what good spirits we were in by this 
time, being warmly and properly clad once more, 
and with our hunger satisfied and in no immediate 
alarm ; one would have thought that we were a pic- 
nic-party, safe in the confines of civihzation, instead 
of three forlorn beings perched upon a shattered 
wreck, surrounded by the treacherous ocean. In 
fact, Eleanor’s gayety reached such a height that I 


120 


CAST AWAY. 


could not refrain from pointing out to her how very 
serious and unenviable was our position, even if we 
succeeded in reaching land safely. What soi-t of 
land was it ? Supposing it should be inhabited by 
savages How were we to subsist 1 And how should 
we ever be able to return to our native country ? 

^‘You forget, Aunt Margaret,” replied Eleanor, 
how I have always loved Robinson Crusoe. And I 
am sure that our island, if it is an island, is just like 
the one on which the Swiss Family Robinson were 
wi’ecked, with plenty of bread-fruit-trees, and meat- 
trees, and candle-bushes, and buffaloes to ride, and 
— and ” 

Foot-prints on the sands of time,” suggested Mr. 
Saxon, ‘‘books in the running brooks, sermons in 
stone, and good in everything.” 

“ Yes, thank you,” said Eleanor. 

“The^land looks very barren,” I said, doubtfully; 
“ I don’t see a sign of a tree. Do you think it is one 
of the South Sea Islands, Mr. Saxon ? ” 

“ I should not wonder,” he replied. “At any rate 
it is land, and that is a great deal. And now, to get 
there.” 

“ Yes,” I said, anxiously, “ don’t let us delay. How 
vdU you manage ? AH the boats are gone.” 

“ Not all,” he said ; “ they have left the launch.” 

The launch was a very large boat which was tied 
down in the middle of the deck and used as a recep- 
tacle for spare masts, and sails, and things. It was 
so big, and covered up with the wreck of the rigging, 
I had not thought of it. 


CAST AWAY. 


121 


We can never move it in the world,” I said, de- 
spairingly. 

Oh, yes, we can,” he said. It will take time and 
patience, that is aU.” 

Taking off his coat and folding it np, and putting 
it away with a great deal of care, as I thought, con- 
sidering that the last night’s experience had pretty 
weU ruined it, Mr. Saxon rolled up his shirt-sleeves, 
and, seizing an axe from the rail at the mainmast, he 
cut away the ropes and wreckage that overlaid the 
boat. (I can understand, now, Mr. Gladstone’s pas- 
sion for cutting down trees, a man does look so pict- 
uresque handling an axe.) Then Mr. Saxon bun- 
dled aU the dunnage,” as he called it, out of the 
boat — I remember there was a coop full of chickens, 
aU of them drowned, poor things ! — and in this Elea- 
nor tried to assist him. Then he chmbed the stump 
of the mainmast and tied a rope over the top of it, 
and fastened a block and tackle to it, hooking the 
block at the other end of the tackle to a ring in the 
stern of the boat. In the same way he fastened a 
tackle to the foretop (I think) and the bow of the 
boat. Then he fastened more tackles to these again, 
explaining that by so doing he multiphed the power. 
I am afraid that I do not make it very clear, as I did 
not understand it myseff, and was quite surprised 
when I found that he was at last able to lift the pon- 
derous weight clear of the deck, so that it swung by 
these tackles. He then took his axe and cut down 
the bulwarks on the side nearest the water, and, ty- 
ing a rope to the bow of the boat, he made Eleanor 


122 


CAST AWAY. 


and I slack up on the tackle,” while he pulled the 
bow around to where the hole was; then putting 
rollers under the boat it slid gracefully into the water. 
Both Eleanor and I helped all that we could, and so 
busy were we that it never once occurred to us to 
look toward the land. I was the first to do so, and 
what was my astonishment when I saw a strange sail 
approaching us. My first thought, of course, was of 
savages, and I naturally screamed. This startled 
Mr. Saxon, but, after taking a long look at the little 
vessel, he declared that it was a fishing-boat, with a 
white man in it. 

Thank Heaven ! ” I ciied ; “ then that means we 
are near some sort of civihzation ! ” 

Anxiously we watched the boat until it came along- 
side. Then the man, seeing Mr. Saxon on the bul- 
warks, called out : Hello ! my friend ! 'pon my 

soul, you seem to have been wrecked ! ” 

At the sound of his voice I looked at Eleanor. She 
was as white as a sheet. Then the stranger climbed 
on deck. Imagine our amazement when we saw that 
it was Sir Charles Brent- Jones ! Utterly dum- 
founded, I stared first at him, and then at the wreck, 
and then at the shore. 

Good God ! ” he exclaimed, recognizing us j “ is 
it possible ? Miss Delafield ! Miss Miller ! ” 

“ TeU me,” I gasped, what land is that ? ” 

Why, my dear madam,” he rephed, ‘‘ it is Cali- 
fornia. Port Harford is just beyond that point.” 

It is useless to attempt to describe my bewilder- 
ment and gi'atitude at this revelation. Questions 


CAST AWAY. 


123 


and answers followed in rapid succession. Sir 
Charles, it seems, had been visiting San Luis Obispo 
and had come down to Port Harford to fish, in the 
eai-ly morning, and sighting the wreck had come to 
us in this singular manner. I certainly never 
thought I should be so glad to see the man. 

“ It seems like a special providence, does it not," 
he said, looking at Eleanor, “ that I, of all men, should 
have been permitted to rescue you ? " 

But Eleanor, poor child, was too much overcome 
by this remarkable meeting to make any reply. Even 
Mr. Saxon (to whom, of course, I had introduced Sii* 
Charles), imperturbable young man that he was, kept 
looking at the Enghshman and then at us in a dazed 
sort of way. But at this remark, he said : 

Pardon me, er — a — Sir Charles, these ladies are 
in my charge, and, unless they wish it otherwise, I 
see no reason why your arrival should make any 
difference in our plans." 

Oh," I said, “ of course. Only, don’t you think 
that " 

‘‘Aunt Margaret," said Eleanor, gravely, and 
speaking for the first time, “ I am sure that we owe 
it to Mr. Saxon to be guided entirely by his judg- 
ment." 

“ Certainly, my dear, I quite agree with you," I 
replied. Although anxious as I was to leave the 
wreck immediately, aU this ceremony as to whose 
boat we should go in seemed out of place. Sir 
Charles bowed at our decision, and said very pohtely 
that he hoped, if there was anything at all he could 


124 


CAST AWAY. 


do, we would command Mm. But I saw an expres- 
sion on Ms face as he looked at Mr. Saxon that I had 
never seen there before, and one that was not at all 
pleasant. 

Well, after that Mr. Saxon went to work, and 
stepped the mast in the launch, and put the sail in 
order ; but although he worked harder than ever, I 
could almost beheve from his manner that he was 
positively disappointed at the turn for the better 
which our affairs had taken. Meantime we packed 
our possessions, all of which, even to our satchels, 
Mr. Saxon had previously brought on deck. Then, 
taking the precaution of putting a keg of fresh water 
and some sMp’s biscuit in the launch, the two gentle- 
men assisted us aboard of her, and we bade farewell 
to the wreck. Following Sir Charles, who went ahead 
in his boat to act as pilot, we reached Port Harford 
in good season, and (with hearts full of gratitude to 
a divine Providence who had brought us safely 
through such peril) once more stood upon the firm 
land. The next day, after a good night’s rest at the 
hotel, we pursued our journey to San Francisco, ac- 
companied by both Sir Charles and Mr. Saxon, and 
finally aiTived at our loved home, overjoyed, and with 
the determination, in my heart at least, never to leave 
it again. 

Strange to say, I suffered no physical injury from 
the terrible experience I had undergone, but, on the 
other hand, Eleanor’s condition gave me serious cause 
for uneasiness. From the day we landed from the 
wi’eck, she became silent and unhke herself, and each 


CAST AWAY. 


125 


day grew paler and thinner. Although the doctors 
could find no special ailment, and she herseK declared 
that she was quite well, I had every reason to fear 
that the mental shock and physical suif ering had been 
too much for my poor child’s delicate, high-strung 
organization. Sir Charles also was quite alarmed, 
and urged me to permit his marriage to take place 
speedily, on the plea that a complete change of Elea- 
nor’s surroundings would benefit her. But I did not 
agree with him, beheving that complete rest was 
what my girl needed most, and even Eleanor herself 
dissented most strenuously from any such hasty 
measure. And well for us was it that we took this 
view. For fate, unwearied in its persecutions, had 
stiU a final stroke in store for us. That my own 
judgment and foresight were in a measure vindicated 
by this blow, made it none the less trying for me, 
and even now the subject is so painful a one that I 
prefer to be as brief as possible in its recital. 

I was in my ovm sitting-room one afternoon about 
a week after our return, when Mr. Saxon’s card was 
brought to me, with a request for an immediate, 
private interview. Naturally this rather unusual 
proceeding startled me, and, apprehending some evil 
news of my dear brother, I directed that he be shown 
to my room without delay. When Mr. Saxon entered, 
I saw that he was disturbed, but allaying with his 
first words my fears about my brother, he began 
asking me the most curious questions about Sir 
Charles Brent- Jones. How long had I known him ? 
How had I become acquainted with him ? Had I 


126 


CAST AWAY. 


ever satisfied my mind as to his identity ? and other 
inquiries calculated to fill my mind with vague un- 
easiness. 

For Heaven’s sake, Mr. Saxon ! ” I finally ex- 
claimed, speak out ! I don’t understand what you 
are trying to get at.” 

“Simply this. Miss Delafield,” he replied; “my 
friendship for your brother and yourself places me 
in a very painful position. Through no fault of 
yours you have been most grossly deceived. This 
man, who calls himself Sir Charles Brent- Jones, is an 
impostor, an impudent adventurer, and worse ! ” 

I felt the blood recede to my heart, and for a 
moment I thought that I was going to faint. Then 
instantly rallying, I grew unreasonably angry, and 
said: 

“ Mr. Saxon, although I cannot say that I like Sir 
Charles Brent- Jones, I cannot believe this of him. 
It is going a little too far. Permit me to suggest, 
sir, that your words would have sounded better said 
to his face.” 

“ Those are just the circumstances under which I 
desire to say them. Miss Delafield, if you will permit 
me,” replied Mr. Saxon, calmly. 

It so happened that Sir Charles was in the parlor 
at that very moment, talking to Eleanor. This mon- 
strous charge seeming, under the circumstances, 
almost like an insult to our family, angered me, as I 
say, and, on the impulse of the moment, I exclaimed : 
“ Then your wish shall be gratified ! ” and, ringing 
the bell, I told the servant to give my compliments 


CAST AWAY. 


127 


to Sir Charles and say that I wished to see him. In 
a few moments that gentleman entered the room. 
Bowing with easy self-possession, he looked inquir- 
ingly first at me, thereby disconcerting me entirely, 
and then at Mr. Saxon. The latter, without allow- 
ing me time to repent my hasty action, shut the 
door, and, facing Sir Charles, said, abruptly : 

‘‘Mr. John Hawkins, alias Count de LeuviUe, alias 
Sir Charles Brent-J ones, I have sent for you in order 
that you may tell this lady, with your own bps, that 
you are an impostor.” 

At the very first word. Sir Charles turned deadly 
pale, his mouth twitched and his eyes wandered about 
restlessly. But recovering himself instantly with a 
great effort, he said, coolly, though the perspiration 
started out on his forehead : 

“ Sir ! Lieutenant Saxon ! This is infamous ! I 
have noticed, sir, from our very first meeting, that 
you have been trying to win away from me the 
affection of Miss Eleanor Miller. And this cowardly 
manceu\Te to injure me in the eyes of her aunt, is of 
a piece with the rest of your conduct. But I warn 
you, sir, I shall make you pay dearly for this ! ” 

At the word “ affection ” Mr. Saxon started and 
changed color in his turn. “ Has it gone so far as 
that?” he said. “Nowhsten to me. You are too 
clever a man not to know wLen a game is up. This 
game is up. We have both been wondering where 
we ever met before. I will teU you. It was at Villa 
Franca on the night of the eighteenth of August, 
last year. Ah, I see you remember me now. Further- 


128 


CAST AWAY. 


more, I have been talking mth the British consul 
here, and I learn that you are very much wanted in 
connection with a little affair which happened in 
London about nine months ago. I have no doubt 
that the New York police would be pleased to know 
of your whereabouts — wait a moment ! All of this 
is of no interest to me whatever, unless — unless, mind 
you, you refuse to do what I tell you. If you agree, 
why there^s a China steamer sails to-morrow, and I’ve 
no doubt we can arrange for your passage. If you 
refuse and make a fight over it — but come ! What’s 
the use of talking nonsense ? You know you haven’t 
the ghost of a show. And you are sensible enough 
to see that it is decidedly to your advantage to get 
out of this town with as httle noise as possible.” 

Sir Charles — ^this man — (what shall I caU him ?) 
looked at Mr. Saxon steadily for a few minutes with- 
out a word. I reaUy felt sorry for him, he behaved 
so well under Mr. Saxon’s dreadful language, and my 
sympathy led me to hope that he was about to \indi- 
cate himself in a tempest of indignation. Instead of 
that, he finally drew a long breath, and to my surprise 
said, in a subdued sort of tone : 

‘‘ You’ve got a good memory, lieutenant. Perhaps 
you are right about the game’s being up. That this 
unfortunate complication was not entirely unfore- 
seen, does not make it any the less hard for me, 
however. With Miss Delafield’s permission,” and 
the wretched culprit bowed to me with the utmost 
assurance, “ I shoidd Hke to speak to you privately a 
moment.” 


CAST AWAY. 


129 


With that he led Mr. Saxon aside, and talked very 
earnestly with him in a low tone for several minutes, 
Mr. Saxon making brief rephes at intervals. At last 
the latter said, aloud, “ I will promise no more than 
that, and I advise you to think weU before you 
refuse. Miss Delafield,^’ he continued, turning to me, 
“ may I trouble you for some writing material ? 

I mechanically complied with his request. 

“ Now then,” he said to the man, “ sit down and 
write what I tell you.” 

For a moment the fellow hesitated, but at last suc- 
cumbing to Mr. Saxon’s masterful manner, he sat 
down and wrote, while Mr. Saxon dictated as fol- 
lows: 

^‘My dear Miss Delafield: 

It is with profound sorrow and regret that I have 
to inform you of the arrival of letters from England, 
announciug the unexpected loss of my estate. Un- 
der the circumstances, of course, I feel in honor 
bound to renounce all pretensions to the hand of your 
niece. As I leave for home to-morrow, and a per- 
sonal interview would be uselessly painful, I beg that 
you will explain the matter to Miss Miller, and con- 
vey to her my most respectful farewell. 

Yours very sincerely, 

Charles Brent-Jones.” 

“ Rather amusing, isn’t it ? ” he said, actually smil- 
ing, as he used the blotter. Loss of my estates is 
good.” 


9 


130 


CAST AWAY. 


‘‘ Miss Delafield/^ said Mr. Saxon^ paying no atten- 
tion to him as he folded this missive and handed it 
to me, you will know the best use to make of this. 
And now,” concluded this remarkable young man, I 
wiU accompany Mr. Hawkins to his hotel, where we 
can make our final arrangements.” 

When the door closed upon them I felt as though 
I had been acting a part in a dream. Then gradu- 
ally the awful truth forced itself upon me, and I 
began to realize the horrible fate my poor Eleanor 
had so narrowly escaped — ^worse even than that 
threatened by our shipwreck. The mental strain was 
too great, and at last, utterly prostrated in mind and 
body, I had to go to bed fairly iU. 

It was quite late the next day before I felt able to 
undergo the ordeal of breaking the news of the loss 
of her lover — Heaven help us ! — to Eleanor. It is 
unnecessary to say how I dreaded, it. Poor little 
heart ! How would she ever bear up under it, sick 
and dispirited as she was f If I had not been antag- 
onistic to her love in the fii*st place, it would not 
have been so hard. God knows that if I could have 
brought the genuine Sir Charles back to her once 
more, much as I had disliked him, I would gladly 
have done so to save her this great grief. But 
regrets were vain. So, as delicately and tenderly as 
I could, I prepared my poor child’s mind for the blow, 
and then handed her the letter — ^not, I must confess, 
without a guilty tremor, remembering the circum- 
stances under which it had been written. Very pale, 
but calm and self-possessed, Eleanor took the note 


CAST AWAY. 


131 


from me, and turning to the window, read it through. 
For a long time she stood there with her back toward 
me, without a word or a sign, until, becoming uneasy, 
I at last went to her side and put my arm around 
her. “ Eleanor,” I said. 

At that she burst into tears, and hiding her face 
on my breast, sobbed as though her heart would 
break. 

“ There ! there ! my dear,” I said, smoothing the 
pretty dark head j “ I know it is hard, but try and 
endure it bravely.” 

“Oh, Aunt Margaret,” she cried, “donT! donT! 
You canT understand. I was not worthy of him, 
good and honorable that he is ! He knew that, and 
that is why he has gone away. He saw that I was 
fickle and changeable — that — that I no longer loved 
him — ^yes ! yes ! it is true ! I no longer love him. 
And do you know. Aunt Margaret, I don’t believe 
that I ever did really love him ? Wlien I came back 
and saw him once more, I knew right away that I 
had made a dreadful mistake. And, oh! I have 
been so wretched over it all. You can’t imagine how 
miserable I have been. And now I am so glad that 
he has gone ! I suppose it is very wicked of me, but 
I can’t help it. And, Aunt Margaret, dear, I am 
never going to love anybody in the world after this, 
but just you and Uncle Ralph.” 

And it was really only after a great deal of perr 
suasion that, some six months later, Mr. Saxon in- 
duced Eleanor to add his name to her list. 


BETWEEN THE ACTS. 


Listen ! said Ethel, who had been studying the 
play-bni, ‘ The foUomng scenes of great splendor will 
illustrate this magnificent productio^i : Act J, tableau 
1 — The old market at Bruges, painted by Donelli. Act 
II, tableau 2 — The Duke de Euystadfs fite, painted by 
Canzanelli ; tableau 3 — The ante-room of the Torture 
Chamber !’” 

0h-00"00 ! ” exclaimed Alice, with a httle shud- 
der ; “ how lovely ! And, see here,” she continued, 
taking up the description, “ ‘ Act III, tableau 4 — The 
procession of the condemned, by TrenellD And it all 
ends with ^ Tableau 5 — The burning stake in the great 
square of the ' something or other. Somebody is killed 
in every act, and all those that are left are burned. 
There is Bertie Sanford over there, Ethel.” 

“ Yes,” said Ethel, ‘‘ he bowed just now. I wonder 
who that is with him.” 

“Well, upon my word,” cried AJice, incredulously, 
as she raised her glasses, “ if it isnT his sister ! Look 
at her, Arthur,” she continued, handing me her little 
tortoise-sheU lorgnettes, as though they were of any 
use j “ she is awfuUy pretty.” 


BETWEEN THE ACTS. 


133 


There is no doubt about their being brother and 
sister,” said I, gazing across the theatre. 

“Haven’t you ever seen them before, Cousin 
Arthur ? ” said Ethel j “ they are twins.” 

“I think it is just too cute for anything, their 
being twins,” said Alice ; “ of course, to-night you 
don’t notice it so much, because they are dressed so 
differently ; but you ought to see Sadie in the morn- 
ing when she drives out to the park. She wears a 
dude collar as high as yours, Arthur, and a walking- 
jacket with a white flannel vest, and a Derby hat 
with just a httle tiny red feather stuck in the band ; 
and when she goes by in that yellow road-cart, with 
a big horse in heavy-plated harness, with the robe 
tucked up around her, and holding the whip and the 
lines just so” — and Alice squared her elbows; “I 
have often told Sadie that if she would only tilt her 
hat over her eyes a little, and hold a cigarette between 
her teeth, she could pass for Bert any day.” 

“ There, that will do, Airthur,” said Ethel, putting 
her hand on my arm ; “ you must not stare at her any 
longer. You will have her brother flying over here 
in a minute.” 

“ That pretty boy wouldn’t hurt anybody, would 
he ? ” said I. 

“ He would try,” said Ethel. And Ahce laughed 
meaningly. 

“ Why,” I inquired, “ is he such a fire-eater ? ” 

“ Yes, that is just what he is,” rephed Ethel ; “ you 
can’t tell what he won’t do. Do you remember the 
time he challenged Captain Saberly, Alice?” 


134 


BETWEEN THE ACTS. 


Yes, Alice remembered it, and laughed again, this 
time with evident pride. 

“ Who is Captain Saberly V’ 1 asked. 

“Oh, Arthur,” exclaimed Alice, enthusiastically, 
“ you just ought to see his mustache ! ” 

“ Why,” said I, “ what is the matter with it ? ” 

“Matter with it? Nothing, except that it is so 
lovely. And he wears his hair cropped close. I teU 
you, he looked fine that day he came down Van Ness 
Avenue, Fourth of July I think it was, on a big brown 
horse that just exactly matched his complexion, with 
his head up, and his sword drawn ; and all the horses 
that drew the cannon were brown, and the soldiers 
sat up on the boxes with their arms folded, and every 
time he gave an order a soldier played on a bugle, 
just hke they do on the stage, you know — ‘ Enter the 
king ! Ta-ra-ta-ta-ta ! ’ ” 

“ ^S’sh, Ahce ! ” exclaimed Ethel, “ you will have 
everybody looking at you.” 

“Well, I don’t mind,” replied Alice, calmly. 

“ So he is in the militia,” said I. 

“ No,” said Alice, “ he is not in the militia ; he is in 
the regular army, a captain of artillery out at the 
Presidio. Isn’t he handsome, Ethel ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” said Ethel, musingly. 

“Well, you ought to know,” retorted Alice, “you 
have made eyes at him often enough.” 

“ Why, Alice ! ” said Ethel, indignantly, “ I never 
did.” 

The fact is that Ethel has a habit, sometimes, of 
drooping her eyehds and looking out of the corners 


BETWEEN THE ACTS. 


135 


of her ^4oiig, dark, slumbrous eyes’^ in a fashion 
that fairly takes a man’s breath away ; although she 
does not know when she does it — at least, she says 
she does not. 

“Somebody else seems to admire this captain,” 
said I, taking Ethel’s part. 

“ Who — me ? ” said Ahce, indifferently j “ well, I do 
think he is handsome, only he is such a thoroughly 
good man, and I don’t like your thoroughly good 
men.” 

“ Why, Ahce,” exclaimed Ethel, “ what a dreadful 
thing to say ! ” 

“ Is it any worse to say it than to think it ? ” 

“ But you ought not to think it, Ahce.” 

“ Come now, retorted Ahce, “ don’t pose for 

a saint ; the first thing you know, people wih be say- 
mg of you as they do of Miss Peters, ‘ Oh, dear, no, 
she isn’t pretty or bright, but then she is so goodl ” 

“ Did I ever make any pretense of being pretty, or 
bright, or good, either 1 ’ ” said Ethel, the red coming 
into her ohve cheeks like an uneven stain. 

“No,” said Alice, contritely, putting out a httle 
velvet hand toward her sister; “but you are ah 
three.” 

“ That is just the way with Ahce, Arthur,” said 
Ethel, turning to me without noticing the hand ; “ if 
she thinks a man is what she calls ^ good ’ she tries to 
make herself out to be entirely different from what 
she is, just on purpose to shock him. And yet she, 
herself, belongs to the Little Sisters of the Poor, the 
Flower Mission, the Woman’s Exchange — there is 


136 


BETWEEN THE ACTS. 


not a society m the city that is doing good but what 
Ahce is a member of it.” 

“ Now, isn’t she mean ? ” said Alice, laughing. Then 
suddenly raising her head with a little gesture, she 
said: ^‘Hush! They are playing ‘La Paloma.^ 
Sweetheart,” she continued, do you remember the 
last time we heard that ! ” 

Then EthePs black eyes met her sister’s blue eyes, 
and a glance passed between them that made me 
experience an unsatisfactory feeling of being entirely 
superfluous. 

At this moment, the orchestra having flnished the 
overture, the curtain rose on the old market at 
Bruges, painted by Donelli. 

****** ^ 

“ How stiff he is ! ” said Alice, impatiently, at the 
end of the act ; “ he does not know how to make love.” 

“ It is all her fault,” said Ethel 5 “ I think she is 
horrid.” 

“ Wlio are you talking about ? ” I said, with my 
glasses leveled at the other side of the house j “ the 
captain ! ” 

“ He is not a captain, is he ? ” said Alice, consulting 
her play-bill ; “ he is a count — Count Dagobert.” 

“ Arthur is thinking about Sadie,” said Ethel ; “ you 
positively must stop staring at her, Arthur j Bert is 
beginning to notice it.” 

“I suppose he will be sending me a challenge 
next,” said I, lowering my glass j “ did he really send 
a challenge to the army man ? ” 

“ Yes, really,” said Ethel. 


BETWEEN THE ACTS. 


137 


“ How absurd,” I said. 

Absurd ! ” said Alice, suddenly straightening 
herself upj ^‘and why absurd? Captain Saberly 
wronged his sister by his suspicions, and her brother 
told the captain that he would either have to fight or 
apologize j and the captain — apologized. Was there 
anything absurd in that ? ” 

But, Alice,” said Ethel, you must acknowledge 
that the captain behaved like a thorough gentleman. 
And, after all, it was aU Bert’s fault.” 

“ I don’t see that it was Bert’s fault, at aU,” ex- 
claimed Alice, lifting her head in a royal way, while 
that uneven, red stain took its turn in her white 
complexion j if the man had not been so stupidly 
good there never would have been any trouble. 
That is just why I don’t like your thoroughly good 
man j he never can see anything except what is right 
in front of his nose.” 

^‘It is surprising to me. Cousin Ahce,” I said, 
admiringly, ‘‘how you could have gained so much 
knowledge of the world in sixteen years.” 

“Well,” said Alice, half smiling, half pouting, 
“ people have no right to blame Bert for everything.” 
Then breaking into a laugh, she said : “ Oh, Ethel, 
didn’t he look too cute for anything that day he wore 
Sadie’s dress ? ” 

“ I should think he would make a very pretty girl,” 
I said, looking across the theatre at the dehcate feat- 
ures of the styhshly dressed Master Bert. 

“ Oh, he does,” said Alice, enthusiastically ; “ and 
that day no one could have told him from his sister. 


138 


BETWEEN THE ACTS. 


unless they knew them quite well. And the captain 
didn’t. He had met Sadie only a few days before at 
dress-parade out at the Presidio. He paid her a great 
deal of attention, but all the men do, and when he 
asked permission to call, she said ^ yes,’ and I don’t 
suppose ever thought about him again. Well,” con- 
tinued Alice, clasping her hands and leaning toward 
me in a confidential httle way, one day, Ethel and 
I happened to be over at Sadie’s house. She had a 
headache, and was lying down in what Susan calls 
her ‘ boodore,’ and while we were chatting, there was 
a tap at the door, and who should come sailing in but 
Master Bert, all rigged out in one of Sadie’s Paris 
costumes. Well, do you know, Arthur, it positively 
scared me at first, he looked so much like Sadie, and 
I think it startled her, because she was not feehng 
well, and she thought it was her wraith or something ; 
Sadie has queer notions sometimes about spirits. 
Then she got angry and scolded Bert like everything, 
but he went over and made love to her j he is an 
awful blarney, Bert is, and the first tlung we knew 
he had us all laughiag at him. He behaved just 
exactly like a girl, and sat down and chatted with us 
until we almost forgot that he wasn’t a girl. Well, 
we had got up to go, and were standing out in the 
hall with Bert, when Sadie’s maid came along with 
a card and handed it to him, pretending to think it 
was Sadie, the deceitful thing ! I found out after- 
ward from Bert that she had helped him. Bert read 
the card, and then putting his head in at the door, 
said, ^ Captain Saberly is down-stairs, sis ; you don’t 


BETWEEN THE ACTS. 139 

want to see him, do yon ? ^ ^ No/ said Sadie, ^ I wish 
yon wonld tell Jones I am not at home to any one, 
Bert 5 and send Snsan to me, too, please.^ ‘ AU right,’ 
says Bert. And with that he fairly took my breath 
away by starting to go down-stairs. ‘Why, Bert,’ 
says Ethel, ‘yon are not going down looking like 
that ? ’ ‘ Why not ? ’ says Bert, innocently. ‘ In yonr 

sister’s clothes ! ’ cried Ethel ; ‘ suppose Captain 
Saberly should see you ! ’ ‘ By George,’ says Bert, 

‘ that would be a lark ! ’ Then aU of a sudden he 
slapped his hand on his knee and said, ‘ I teU you 
what let’s do ; I’ll play like I wa^ Sadie and go down 
and see him ! ’ Well, Ethel just simply sank down 
on the steps aU in a heap, too weak to say a word, 
and I was horrified.” 

“ Yes, you were,” said Ethel, sarcastically ; you 
were just as bad as Bert, every bit.” 

Whereat Alice made just a suspicion of a moue at 
her sister and went on, with her blue eyes dancing 
with fun : 

“Well, do you know, Arthur, aU we could say 
would not move that boy. Ethel threatened to call 
Sadie, and he said if she did he would rush down- 
stairs with a shriek, and throw himself into the cap- 
tain’s arms. You might as well talk to the wind as 
talk to Bert when he has once set his mind on any- 
thing. ‘Now, look here, Alice,’ says Bert to me, 
rumpling up his curly head, ‘how is that for a bang? 
Sadie had a bonnet on out at the Presidio, you know, 
and the captain will think she has had typhoid fever 
or something, and had her hair cut ; besides, they 


140 


BETWEEN THE ACTS. 


have got him corraled in the parlor, and it is always 
dark in there.^ And then he stood on tiptoe in front 
of the mirror, at the head of the steps, and pushed 
his dress hack, and poked out the pannier, and looked 
at himself with his head first on one side and then 
on the other, jnst like he had seen girls do, and 
pinched his cheeks, and hit his hps, and wanted to 
know if he needed any powder on his nose, until 
what with Ethel begging him not to go, and telling 
me to hush my gigghng, what would the captain 
think of us, I almost went off into hysterics. But 
when he started down-stairs I began to get scared. 
As for Ethel, she declared that she would not stay in 
that house another minute for a thousand dollars, 
and the moment Bert got into the parlor, she just 
flew down the steps and out of the door. I felt hke 
running too, hut I thought I would just take a peep 
at Bert first, to see how he looked. They have big, 
heavy portieres over all the doors, so I could see 
easily enough. I was so afraid he would stick his 
feet out or tilt his chair hack, hut he did not 5 he was 
sitting up beautifully. He was real clever, too, for 
he had taken a low chair in a dark corner, with his 
back to the hght. His voice is exactly like Ethefs, 
very low, and he knows ah. her httle ways, because 
he is a great tease, and mimics her all the time, and 
he was putting them all on. It was awfully cute, 
and I could not help laughing, but oh ! how I wished 
the captain would go. The wretched man seemed to 
have made up his mind to stay all the afternoon. 
Pretty soon Bert began to get tired, and I could see 


BETWEEN THE ACTS. 


141 


him twisting around and settling himself down in his 
chair, until I got so nervous I could have screamed. 
Then the captain began talking about horses. Now 
if there is one thing that Bert thinks he knows all 
about it is horses, so the next minute he had forgot- 
ten himself entirely and was laying down the law to 
the captain about horses. WeU, of course, the cap- 
tain knew a great deal more about horses than Bert 
did, but he was too polite to argue, he only looked 
immensely amused and a little surprised, and after 
Bert had finished, he said, ‘ You seem to be fond of 
horses, Miss Sanford.^ ‘ WeU,’ repUed Bert, ^ I should 
smUe.’ You can imagine what I felt, Arthur; I 
thought I should faint. Bert must have seen the 
look the captain gave liim, for he blushed. Bert 
blushes lovely, just like a girl, and anybody can make 
him blush. WeU, that looked better, of course, only 
the next minute Bert asked the captain if he was 
fond of music, and when he said yes, Bert said he 
would play for him.” 

“ Of course,” I said, laughing, “ he wanted to enter- 
tain the captain.” 

“That is just what Bert said, afterward,” said 
AUce, “ and he was quite surprised when I told him 
that it was not at aU the proper thing to do. But 
Usten, that is not aU. 'When he had played a Uttle, 
he turned around and said, ‘ Now, I’U whistle for you.’ 
He has a trick of whistUng, and I used to think it 
was so pretty, but I never want to hear him again as 
long as I Uve. The captain, of course, was very 
poUte, only I could see that the poor man was so 


142 


BETWEEN THE ACTS. 


astonished he did not know what to do. All the 
same, he seemed to hke it very well, and showed no 
intention of going, nntil finally Bert got up from the 
piano, and stood up, and there was nothing left for 
him to do but go, and go he did. Bert said he never 
knew before what we girls had to go through with, 
and that he would have thrown the captain out of 
the window if he had stayed another minute. I 
beheve, myself, that he was just about desperate 
enough to teU him who he was.^^ 

It would have been much better if he had,” said 
Ethel. Look, the curtain is going up. This must 
be the Duke de Ruystadt’s fete.” 

* ****** 

“Wasn’t it grand in that poor old man submitting 
to be shot rather than betray his comrades,” said 
Ethel, with a long breath, as the curtain descended. 

“ It was dreadful,” said Alice ; “ those other men 
put me out of patience, it was so easy for them to 
stand around and teU him to be brave and die rather 
than tell.” 

“ Yes,” said Ethel, “ I expect if some of them had 
to be shot, they would have told a dozen times over.” 

“ I would, if it had been me,” said Alice, “ I am 
such a coward. If any one should point a pistol at 
me I would teU anything they wanted me to.” 

“ Maybe you wouldn’t,” said Ethel, her dark eyes 
lighting up; “you can’t teU. Suppose you loved 
somebody very much ? ” 

“I don’t know how that would be,” said Ahce, 
demurely ; “ but I suppose, from what I have heard, 


BETWEEN THE ACTS. 


143 


that when one is in love there is no telling what 
idiotic things one might not do.” 

“Well,” I said, “probably the poor old martyr is 
comforting himself with bread and cheese and beer 
in the green-room, so now tell me the rest about 
Master Bert and his sister.” 

“ Ethel, dear,” said Ahce, leaning over in her confi- 
dential way, “doesn^t it seem to you that Cousin 
Arthur is strangely interested in ‘ Master Bert ^ and 
— his sister ? ” and then, laughing, she continued : 

“ Of course, Bei*t made me promise on my solemn 
word of honor not to tell Sadie ” 

“ Now, there is a case in point,” I interrupted j “ I 
venture to say that if the whole of the captain’s bat- 
tery had been turned on you, you would not have 
given Bert away.” 

“I don’t know what you mean by ‘giving Bert 
away,’ Cousin Arthur,” said Alice, with dignity. At 
the same time the pink in her face deepened percep- 
tibly, while Ethel gave a little low laugh of enjoy- 
ment. Then Alice, turning her shoulder upon me, 
said, “ I’ll not teU you anything more.” 

“Oh, now, Alice,” I pleaded, “please go onj I 
promise not to interrupt you again.” 

“ Well,” said Alice, with an air of great condescen- 
sion, “ then I’ll forgive you. But I hardly know how 
to tell you what happened next, because part of it I 
got from Bert, and part from Sadie, and part I 
guessed. At any rate, a few days afterward Bert 
was walking down the avenue with Kate and NeUie 
Spaulding, who are great friends of his. It was just 


144 


BETWEEN THE ACTS. 


about twilight, and almost in front of Bert’s bouse, 
and they were laughing, and talking, and carrying 
on at a great rate, when who should come along but 
Captain Saberly. I don’t suppose he ever would have 
noticed them ii Bert hadn’t just at that moment 
started to whistling, and, as luck would have it, the 
very same piece he had whistled for the captain. I 
accused Bert afterward of doing it on purpose, but 
he declared that he didn’t. Well, Bert said that as 
soon as the captain heard him whistling, he looked 
up suddenly, and then, he said, he never saw a more 
astonished man in his life. He looked at him, Bert 
said, and looked at him, and looked at him. At first 
Bert was going to laugh, remembering the last time 
they had met; and then not knowing whether to 
recognize him, or exactly what to do, he ended by 
getting confused and dropping his eyes, he blushed 
crimson, and finally commenced talking to the girls, 
pretending that he did not know the captain, although 
he said he could feel that the captain kept his eyes 
on him as long as possible. 

“Well,” continued Alice, holding out her hands in 
a protesting sort of way, “ I thought it was a good 
joke on Bert, and teased him about blushing and aU 
that. And Bert himself, although he was a httle bit 
uneasy for fear the story would get out and make 
his father angry, laughed at the captain’s astonish- 
ment. It never once entered our heads but that the 
captain imderstood it aU ! that Bert was Sadie’s twin 
brother, and that it was Bert who had played on the 
piano for him, and whistled, and aU the rest of it. 


BETWEEN THE ACTS. 


145 


Cousin Arthur,” continued Alice, solemnly, do you 
know that that miserable man thought that it was 
Sadie all the time, that it was Sadie whom he had 
seen in the parlor, and that it was Sadie out there in 
the street ! Just think of it, Sadie Sanford masquer- 
ading in men^s clothes in the pubhc street ! Sadie, 
of all girls in the world! Oh! Well,” concluded 
Alice, with a resigned air, it has taught me a les- 
son.” 

“I should think it ought to, Alice,” said Ethel, 
gravely j “ it was all dreadful enough. At the same 
time, I can’t understand why you and Bert blame 
Captain Saberly as you do. What else could he have 
thought ? He met Sadie once in a crowd, and then 
he called on her 5 she talked about horses, used slang, 
and whistled for his amusement, and, in fact, behaved 
hke a boy ; then he meets a boy in front of her house, 
whistling the same thing, and Bert whistles so pecul- 
iarly, I never heard anybody who whistles hke him ; 
the captain, poor man, thinks he recognizes the young 
lady on whom he caUed, and, scarcely beheving his 
eyeS) looks and looks at her ; then the boy, that is, 
the girl — it is nothing to laugh at, Alice,” interrupted 
Ethel, severely — shows that she knows him, blushes 
and gets confused, and then pretends that she doesn’t. 
What else is he to think ? How should he know that 
Sadie had a twin brother, exactly hke her, who is in 
the habit of putting on her dresses and going down 
into the parlor to entertain her guests'? I thi nk 
you and Bert were very unreasonable, to say the 
least.” 


10 


146 


BETWEEN THE ACTS. 


I don’t, at all/’ retorted Alice 5 “ he ought to have 
known, oughtn’t he. Cousin Arthur ? ” 

WeU,” I said, “ I don’t know but that, under the 
circumstances, it was natural for a man to make such 
a mistake. At the same time, there was no need of 
his ever taking any notice of it.” 

“ WeU, he did,” said Alice j “ he was one of your 
thoroughly good men, and I suppose he considered 
it his duty to go and point out to Sadie the evil of 
her ways. At any rate, he did go and talk to her 
about it, and got Bert into no end of trouble.” 

don’t think you know Captain Saberly very 
weU, AJice,” said Ethel. 

But,” said I, taking Alice’s side of the question, 
perhaps a httle warmly, whatever his reasons, he 
had no right to tax the young lady with what might 
have been simply a girlish frohc, of which he hap- 
pened accidentaUy to be a witness. It was no busi- 
ness of his.” 

But he did not tax her with it,” said Ethel. 

Why, Ethel,” exclaimed Alice, Bert ” 

‘‘Listen a moment, Alice,” interrupted Ethel; 
“ since you have told this much, I may as weU teU 
what I know. The captain did not caU on Sadie 
for a week after seeing Bert. Then, instead of meet- 
ing a tomboy, he met — ^weU, he met Sadie. Of 
course, he was surprised at the change, but even then 
he did not suspect. Only, as it appears, he had made 
up his mind to know something more about that 
masquerading. In fact, he told me afterward, that 
during that week he had thought of nothing else.” 


BETWEEN THE ACTS. 


147 


“ Come,” I said, somewhat sarcastically, “ your cap- 
tain must be a very susceptible man to become so 
much interested in Miss Sanford on such short 
acquaintance.” 

WeU, I don’t know,” said Ethel j have known 
a man to become interested in her just from seeing 
her across the theatre.” 

AH down but one,” said Alice, demurely. 

“ So,” continued Ethel, silencing my feeble protests 
with one of those hidden glances out of the comers 
of her dark eyes, “ after they had talked a little while, 
the captain said, very naturally, ‘Miss Sanford, I 
have often thought of that charming and original 
accomplishment of yours j won’t you whistle some- 
thing for me ? ’ ” 

“ Shades of night ! ” ejaculated Alice, laughing, 
“how I should like to have seen Sadie’s face. 
Wouldn’t you, Arthur?” 

“I don’t know,” I said, doubtfully. “What did 
she say to that, Ethel ? ” 

“Well,” said Ethel, “Sadie has a way of drawing 
herself up when she is offended, and looking at you 
as though you were miles away, and I expect that is 
the way she looked at the captain when she asked 
him what he meant. You see, I happened to call on 
her just after he left, and that is how Sadie came to 
tell me aU this. It seems that the captain looked 
surprised at first, and then smiled slightly, as he 
replied : ‘ Perhaps I have been too forward ; I should 
not have thought of asking you, except that when I 
was here before you were kind enough to favor me. 


148 


BETWEEN THE ACTS. 


I hope you wHl forgive my presumption.’ Then 
Sadie said : ‘ Captain Saherly, I really don’t know 
what you are talking about. In the first place, I 
never have seen you here before 5 and in the second 
place, I certainly never have whistled, on that or 
any other occasion.’ ^ What ! ’ cried the captain j 
^ don’t you remember when I called here a week ago 
last Tuesday V ‘I remember that I received your 
card,’ said Sadie, with dignity ; ^ but I also remember 
that I sent word to you that I was not well, and 
begged to be excused.’ ^ But,’ protested the captain, 
looking more and more astonished, ‘ I never received 
that message, and I certainly was entertained by a 
young lady who was your hving image ! ’ Then he 
stopped and stared at her a moment, and cried ; ^ No, 
by Jove ! Come to think of it, she had short, curly 
hair, like a boy’s.’ That ^ like a boy’s ’ set Sadie to 
thinking, and all of a sudden she remembered about 
Bert’s being dressed in her clothes the day the cap- 
tain called. WeU, Sadie said she felt herself grow 
hot from head to foot, and then cold. At first, the 
idea that Bert could have gone down and received the 
captain seemed too dreadful ; but the man was so 
evidently in earnest, and all that he said, especially 
about the whistling, seemed to point to Bert so con- 
clusively, that the more Sadie thought of it, the more 
she became convinced that Bert must be at the bot- 
tom of it all. Then she felt as though she would 
like to have the floor open and swaUow her, and all 
the time the captain was looking at her so peculiarly. 
At last she had to say something, so she said : ^ Are 


BETWEEN THE ACTS. 


149 


you sure it was not my brother, Captain Saberly ? ^ 
‘ Your brother ! ’ said the captain j ^ have you a 
brother ? ’ ^ Yes/ said Sadie, with a smile, although 

all the time she was trying very hard to keep the 
tears out of her eyes, ‘ I have a twin brother, who 
resembles me very much.^ Then suddenly the captain 
brought his fist down into the palm of his hand, like 
that, and exclaimed : ‘ By Jove ! that accounts for 
that boy I saw on the street the other evening. It 
was not you after all ! ^ At this Sadie just simply 
rose up out of her chair, and gazed at him. Then 
sweeping by him, she crossed the room to where the 
beU was and rang it. The captain, poor man, who 
had actually been beaming with joy at his discovery, 
suddenly grew red, and then pale, and the next 
moment was hurrying over to her with all sorts of 
explanations and apologies. But Sadie raised her 
arm in that pretty, httle, theatrical way she some- 
times has, and pointing to his chair, said : ‘ Captain 
Saberly, will you obhge me by resuming your seat ? 
It will be for a few moments only j I will not detain 
you long.^ ” 

“ Well done, Sadie ! ” said Alice. “ You never told 
me all this before, Ethel ! ” 

“By that time,^^ continued Ethel, “Jones had 
answered the bell and Sadie said to him, ‘ Go find my 
brother, wherever he is, and teU him I want to see 
hiin instantly. Do you understand ? Instantly.’ 
When the captain heard that, he quietly sat down 
without another word, while Sadie remained stand- 
ing where she was. It must have been ten minutes 


150 


BETWEEN THE ACTS. 


that they had to wait, during which time they neither 
of them uttered a syllable. WeU, when Bert came, 
finally, Sadie spoke right up and said, ‘ Bert, have you 
ever seen this gentleman before?^ WeU, of course, 
when Bert saw the captain he grew very red and got 
embarrassed, until Sadie repeated the question impa- 
tiently, and then Bert said, ‘Yes, I have.^ ‘TeU me 
where you met him, Bert,^ said Sadie ; ‘ teU me aU 
about it.^ Then Bert, looking very much ashamed 
of himself, told her how he had gone down in her 
dress to receive the captain. Sadie listened quietly 
untU he had finished, and then she said, ‘ Have you 
seen him at any other time ? ’ ‘ Yes,^ said Bert, ‘ I 

saw him the other evening on the street. Those are 
the only times.^ Then Sadie turned to the captain 
in the same quiet way and said, ‘ I trust that this 
explains everything to your satisfaction, Captain 
SaberlyT ‘ Entirely so,^ repUed the captaiu, in an 
equaUy quiet tone ; ‘ I would merely like to say. Mss 
Sanford, that I am sorry you should have attached so 
much importance to this matter, or have considered 
it necessary to furnish evidence of what was so easUy 
explained.^ Then Bert, who, from being uncomfort- 
able had begun to get angry, stepped forward and 
said, ‘Captain Saberly, anything further that you 
may have to say on this subject you wiU please to say 
to me.^ At this the captain looked at Bert a Uttle 
surprised at first, and then I suppose the figure Bert 
made the last time he was in the parlor must have 
struck him suddenly, for he looked as though he was 
going to laugh, only he didn’t j he turned to Sadie, 


BETWEEN THE ACTS 


151 


who was in perfect agony all this time, and bowed 
gravely, and then, without another word, departed. 
As soon as he was gone Sadie turned to Bert and 
said, very bitterly: ‘You are my brother. It is 
your place to take care of me, to protect me. And 
yet you are the first to have placed me in a false 
position. Through you, I know for the first time in 
my hf e what it is to feel ashamed ! I don’t know 
whether I can ever forgive you ! ’ And with that she 
left the room without giving poor Bert a chance to 
say a word. WeU, when I came in a few minutes 
after all this, I found Sadie in her own room, lying 
on the lounge, crying as though her heart would 
break. It was then that she told me what had hap- 
pened. Of course, I consoled her as well as I could, 
and told her that she was making a great deal more 
of it than was necessary, that she would laugh over 
it in a week. But she declared that Bert’s behavior 
was a disgrace to her and all the family, and as for 
the captain, she never wanted to see him again, that 
she hated the very sound of his voice.” 

“ Of course,” said Alice, “ so should I.” 

“ Did she ever see him again ? ” I asked. 

“ Yes,” said Ethel, “ she had to. It was on account 
of the challenge that Bert sent the captain. I did 
not see it, but I heard that it was a very nice chal- 
lenge.” 

“ I suppose the captain told you that,” said Alice, 
suspiciously. “ But I don’t care, it was nice. Bert 
kept a copy and showed it to me afterward. The 
only thin g that I could see wrong about it was that 


152 


BETWEEN THE ACTS. 


he spelt weapons with two ^ ps.^ Of course the cap- 
tain would make fun of it.” 

“ You know as weU as I do that the captain didn^t 
make fun of it,” said Ethel. “ Hasn’t Bert told us 
often enough how very serious it came near being? 
How that big lieutenant called on him to arrange 
preliminaries, as they call it j lieutenant — what was 
his name? Oh, yes, Saddler. Lieutenant Saddler 
said that his man was ready to fight, of course, but 
as it would never do to involve a lady’s name in such 
an affair, it was his. Lieutenant Saddler’s, opinion, 
that they would have to postpone a meeting until 
they could find some good pretext. Meantime, his 
man stood ready to apologize to the lady — to the 
lady, only, of course — for his mistake, if this was 
satisfactory to Mr. Sanford. Well, the result of it 
all was that the very next day at two o’clock, a mes- 
senger brought a note from the captain to Sadie. I 
happened to be with her at the time.” 

“ As usual,” said Alice, sarcastically. 

“ As usual,” said Ethel, laughing and glancing at 
her sister in a deprecatory sort of way. “ And when 
she read it Sadie handed it to me indignantly and 
said, ‘ That is nothing more nor less than imperti- 
nence.’ I read the note and found that in accordance 
with the request of Miss Sanford’s brother. Captain 
Saberly proposed to do himself the honor of calling 
on Miss Sanford at half -past two, to apologize for a 
mistake which he had already deeply regretted. ‘ It 
is impertinence,’ repeated Sadie ; ‘ he is just taking 
advantage of that boy, and I will not see him.’ Then 


BETWEEN THE ACTS. 


153 


I told her what I thought. I told her I thought that 
Captain Saherly had not been treated exactly right. 
That on his first visit to the house Bert had made 
him the subject of a practical joke, that on his sec- 
ond visit she, Sadie, had given him his cmige for mak- 
ing a nustake for which Bert was entirely responsible, 
and that now, when he was comiug at her brother's 
request to apologize, she was gomg to refuse to see 
him. ‘ Now,^ I said, ^ Sadie, I think that you not only 
ought to receive him, but you ought to receive him 
kindly.' Well, Sadie looked at me for about a min- 
ute, and then, at last, she rang for her maid and pro- 
ceeded to make a toilet, and when half-past two came 
and with it the captain's card, she went down look- 
ing prettier than I ever saw her before. S’sh ! ” said 
Ethel, interrupting herself, “ the curtain is going up. 
This must be the great square with the unpronounce- 
able name, by TreneUi." 

“ It is the procession of the condemned," whispered 
Alice, with a httle shiver, as the orchestra began a 
funeral march. 

*##=»♦** 

It was dreadful of Loriston to kill that woman 
after aU she had done for him," said Ethel, with a 
troubled face, as she closed the case of her opera- 
glasses and arose. 

WeU, she was horrid," said Alice 5 she betrayed 
her country and all of Loriston's friends." 

“ But it was because she loved him so and tried so 
hard to save him," said Ethel. “ It was all very well 
for him to share his comrade's fate and die rather than 


154 


BETWEEN THE ACTS. 


let them think that he was the one who had betrayed 
them, but he might have let her go.” 

“ But he had to keep his oath to kill the one who 
had betrayed them, you know,” said Ahce j ‘‘ and she 
really did not deserve any sympathy because she was 
so awkward.” 

^‘Then why have you been crying?” demanded 
Ethel. 

“ Have T been crying ? ” said Alice, with a little 
laugh, as I helped her into her seal-skin coat. Then, 
as she turned to pick up her fan from the seat, she 
exclaimed, Oh, Arthur, look ! quick ! There is Cap- 
tain Saberly over there now, with Sadie.” 

Looking across the theatre to where Miss Sanford 
and her brother were waiting for the crowd to sub- 
side, I saw a tall, broad-shouldered man, with close- 
cut brown hair, and a lean, brown face, and eyebrows, 
which would have made a respectable pair of mus- 
taches, hanging over deep-set, gray eyes, and an 
enormous mustache, imder which you could just see 
a very square chin, with a dimple in the middle of it. 

“WeU,” I said, after a long look through the 
glasses which Alice had handed me, I must say that 
the captain is a very soldierly looking fellow. It 
seems to me,” I added, that Sadie — that is. Miss 
Sanford, seems to be on very friendly terms with him, 
after all.” 

WeU,” said Ethel, turning the collar of her coat 
up about her ears, “ she ought to be. They are going 
to be married in the spring.” 


DICK. 


A NAVAL STORY. 


Dick was a midshipman, the youngest man in his 
class at the Naval Academy. I say man,” because 
it was the custom j in reality he was but a child, being 
no more than fourteen years old the month that he 
entered. In fact, in those days, just before the War 
of the Rebellion, fourteen was the earhest age at 
which a candidate might enter. Dick was a delicate- 
looking boy, with a beautiful face. His eyes were 
large and brown, not sparkling, but with a soft, 
-steady light in their depths. His nose was straight, 
with a thorough-bred look about the nostrils, and his 
mouth and chin were perfectly molded. When he 
laughed, it was hke a flash of light, his teeth were so 
white and even. His hair was soft brown, hke his 
eyes, and when he was exercising he would toss it 
back from his forehead with an alert movement, hke 
a coitus. He was prettier than any girl in Annapo- 
hsj a comparison suggested, perhaps, by the fact 
that he had some girhsh traits, naturally enough, he 
having been brought up by a widowed mother. He 


156 


DICK. 


was unusually nice in his ways, and unusually mod- 
est for a boy. Of course, the officers^ wives showed 
him a good deal of attention, and the officers too, for 
that matter. No one is altogether insensible to 
beautiful eyes that lower themselves, and a silk-vel- 
vet skin that blushes under a woman’s glance. Even 
the three upper classes were inclined to dry-nurse 
Dick. While we were plebes,” and the third class- 
men were exerting their ingenuity to make us real- 
ize our degraded condition, fit only to be made fools 
of for their amusement, ’he was, to a certain extent, 
exempted. Few third classmen pointed a scornful 
finger at him, calling him a slimy, crawhng thing ! ” 
as they did at the rest of us. If they did, Dick got 
embarrassed, blushed, and hung his head, giving only 
a little, upward glance from under his long lashes, 
that acknowledged, half in fun, half in earnest, that 
he was repugnant and loathsome to every human 
sense. Which, in view of the charming actuality, 
made the other man seem more of a fool than Dick. 

It may be as well to explain that the third class, 
having itself just come out of Egypt, as it were, was 
entitled by the unwritten laws of the academy to 
oppress the new fourth class. The second class gen- 
erally considered it undignified to participate in this 
‘‘ running of plebes,” as it was called ; on the con- 
trary, they frequently interposed their authority on 
behalf of an ill-treated youngster 5 while the first class 
was of such an exalted rank that the members were 
scarcely supposed to know that there were such 
things as “plebes” in existence. 


DICK. 


157 


We, of the fourth class, swung our hammocks 
aboard the old Cmistitution, which was moored to the 
wharf. The three senior classes lived in buildings in 
the academy gi’ounds, where we seldom penetrated, 
unless upon compulsion. The third class frequently 
made forays on the wharf and captured a gang of 
us ‘‘plebes,” taking us off to some secluded spot 
where they could run ” or haze ” us without fear 
of interruption by a passing officer. This runniug 
varied according to the intellect, ingenuity, or tastes 
of the men who had us in subjection. Sometimes it 
was witty, sometimes it was brutal, very often it was 
only stupid. It was against our code to shirk or 
avoid this treatment, nor was it wise to do so. It 
was equally useless to resist or lose one’s temper. 
We simply bided our time until we were third class- 
men and had a class of “ plebes ” iu bondage. 

From a good deal of this sort of nonsense Dick 
was, as I say, exempt. He was even invited to visit 
upper classmen in their quarters in the grounds. He 
was never knowm to utter cat-caUs after hammocks 
had been swoing, or send a cannon-ball careering 
along the deck at midnight to the supposed discom- 
fiture of the upper classman in charge. All of which, 
in oim hunted, democratic condition, was set down 
to his disfavor. Our class, at this early period, was, 
necessarily, an unorganized mob, a herd of country 
boys and city boys, gentlemen and unlicked cubs of 
aU ages and from all parts of the land. It took a 
long time for each one to find his level, and class 
judgment, as a whole, was crude. It promptly set 


158 


DICK. 


Dick, or, as he was called at that time, young Pres- 
ton, down as effeminate in a derogatory sense, and, 
worse still, as a “ boot-lick.” The rough justice that 
is said to exist among boys is, at least, seldom tem- 
pered with allowance of any sort. That Dick had 
been reared entirely by his mother, that he had left 
her for the first time in his hfe, stiU a child, to be 
turned loose in this rough crew, ignorant and inno- 
cent, and that he naturally responded to the kind- 
ness of those in authority, had nothing to do with 
the case. So it happened that, while young Preston 
escaped a good deal of running by the third class, he 
was dealt out a full measure by his own, which was 
infinitely harder to bear. There were not wanting 
among us enterprising youngsters who asked for no 
better amusement than tormenting any one, big or 
little, who was susceptible of being teased. 

It was owing to the successful efforts of one of 
these domestic scourges that I became intimately 
acquainted with Dick. This boy had a genius for 
discovering the weak points in the character of his 
comrades, which knowledge he would coin into 
absurdly appropriate nicknames. He was about 
Preston’s age, ugly, with red hair, and pale-blue 
eyes ; he was not iU-natured, he simply could not help 
teasing. When he found a galled spot, he would 
peck away at it with the persistency of a magpie. 
He very soon chose Dick for his prey. His method 
was to insist that Dick was, in reality, a girl. He 
called him “ Susie,” and lavished endearments upon 
him at every inopportune moment. No place or 


DICK. 


159 


occasion proved a sanctuary for Dick. Neither con- 
ciliation nor resentment availed him • on the con- 
trary, they showed that he was hurt and stimulated 
his tormentor into increased activity. Nor was it 
alone these ludicrous demonstrations of love that 
were irritating, they had endless consequences. They 
provoked laughter, and induced others, less original 
or aggressive, to adopt a similar strain, not so funny, 
and more bitter in taunting allusions to the favor 
shown him by the upper classes. In this way Dick 
gradually became an Ishmaelite in his own class. 
Let no one think lightly of it who has not been 
ostracized. He was always alone, and wore an 
unhappy, hunted look ; his big, brown eyes seemed 
full of unshed tears, he having, in fact, no hiding- 
place where he might shed them. 

Indeed, Dick's lines had fallen in bad places, and 
I, who was the oldest member of the class, felt sorry 
for him. More than once I pointed out that his 
redemption lay only in fighting his principal tor- 
mentor, even at the expense of a sound thrashing. To 
my surprise, one day, he expressed his willingness to 
follow my advice. He was very pale when he made 
this announcement, but, from his look, I knew that 
he would stand his ground. And he did, right man- 
fully. Although the fight was a queer affair, which 
the referee discreetly decided a draw, it was a great 
moral victory for Dick. The black eye that orna- 
mented his beautiful face quickly raised him to a high 
level in the class, and, under the warm rays of the 
sun of popularity, his natural seK bloomed out sur- 


160 


DICK. 


prisingly. He developed a cleverness and daring np 
aloft, at about this time, which further won him the 
respect of his class. In fact, he proved to be very 
different from what most of us had fancied. Frank, 
honorable, and manly, always bright and good-nat- 
ured, with a sort of humorously aggressive way 
about him, that would often dissolve with a laugh 
into the shy modesty that characterized his first 
appearance, Dick, before our first year was finished, 
numbered friends by the score, in his own class as 
well as out of it. 

Now, among these latter was a sailor-man named 
Lee. Lee was rated as a boatswain^s mate, and was 
attached to one of the practice-ships lying at the 
wharf. His friendship for Dick was well known, 
and as he is one of the principal figures in the inci- 
dents which I am about to relate, I may as weU 
describe him here. He was about forty years old, 
in the prime of his vigor. Large framed, with red 
face and shaggy, yellow hair, he had the build of a 
bear with the head of a lion. The simile is not bad, 
for I may add that he had the enormous strength of 
the one with the cat-like agihty of the other. He 
was the best practical seaman I ever knew. Withal, 
he was quiet and dignified in his manner with his 
superior officers, knowing his worth but never trad- 
ing on it. Of course, youngsters ambitious to excel 
as seamen greatly admired this perfect sailor, and 
never tired of relating his achievements. We were 
glad enough to have him talk to us, a privilege of 
which he rarely availed himself. In fact, although 


DICK. 


161 


not by any means ill-natured, he did not, as a usual 
thing, encourage advances. The one exception that 
he made was with Dick. While we lived aboard the 
Constitution he would engage him in conversation, 
and teach him more seamanship in an hour than Dick 
would learn from books in a month. When we 
became third classmen and hved in quarters, Dick 
used to go down to the ships and discuss his coming 
recitation in seamanship with Lee, with the result 
that, in the class-room, he would often surprise his 
instructor with original views of the subject, some- 
times absorbing the hour in discussions which were 
very interesting, especially to those of us unprepared 
with our lesson. WTnle Lee’s liking, I might almost 
say affection, for Dick increased, it showed itself only 
in a desire to make him proficient in his profession. 
To be sure there was, occasionally, some little matter 
of a cunningly wrought knife-laniard, or a set of 
beautifully made hammock-clews, but his manner was 
generally that of an instructor. Although he did 
not hesitate to chide Dick on occasion, it was always 
u ]y[j. ?? Preston, in the most respectful tone. In fact, 
he once rebuked Dick for calling him by his first 
name, explaining that it was a familiarity in which 
an ofiS.cer should not indulge. This man’s abilities 
undoubtedly entitled him to be a warrant officer. In 
fact, he had once held a warrant, but, unfortunately, 
Lee was in the habit of going off, every once in a 
while, and getting very drunk, and staying drunk for 
a week at a time. When the craving for hquor pos- 
sessed him, nothing would keep him from it ; all his 
11 


162 


DICK. 


seamanship, strength, and daring were enlisted to 
obtain it. Bnt once drunk, all of Lee^s admirable 
qualities disappeared, and he was httle better than a 
brute. 

About a year after our entrance into the Naval 
Academy, Dick and I found ourselves, one summer 
morning, aboard the ship Truesdellj taking our first 
practice cruise. We had become great friends, mean- 
time. We had passed our examination, and were, 
at last, third classmen, and, as such, were rated as 
“ able-bodied seamen.^^ Of course, this was for 
experience only, the second class being rated as 
“ petty officers,” and the first as commissioned offi- 
cers.” Although we did the duties of our respective 
ratings, there was a full complement of seamen and 
officers aboard to handle the ship when necessary. 
On this particular morning we were somewhere off 
the coast of Newfoundland, the sun was just rising, 
and Dick and I were loafing forward, idly watching 
the men washing down the forecastle. Lee, who was 
boatswains mate aboard the Truesdellj halving super- 
intended the work to his satisfaction, drew up from 
over the side a bucket of the cold, sparkling water 
for his own use. Rolhng up the sleeves of his shirt, 
displaying a pair of arms like legs, he dipped his 
leonine head in the bucket, and emerged, after an 
alarming space of time, looking like a sea-god, with 
his reddish, yellow hair, shaggy eyebrows, huge mus- 
tache and beard dripping with water, and his ruddy 
face beaming with enjoyment. 

“ Mr. Preston,” he said, looking at Dick mth his 


DICK. 


163 


piercing gray eyes just visible over the edge of the 
piece of canvas, with which he proceeded to scour 
himself ; “ Mr. Preston, do you see anything wrong 
with that lime- juicer over there ? ” 

Dick, understanding, of course, that this was a 
lesson in seamanship, shaded his eyes with his hand 
and studied the strange sail indicated by Lee, a brig, 
which had crept up on us during the night, and now 
lay less than half a mile away. 

“ She is too much down by the head,” said Dick, 
sagely. 

“No, no,” said Leej “look at her mainyard. 
Don’t you see that she has carried away the truss ? ” 

“By George, that’s so!” said Dick, profoundly 
impressed. 

Then Lee, in a playful humor after his ablutions, 
stooped down and picked up a bit of rope-yam from 
the deck with a cat-hke daintiness, and dexterously 
turning in it a tom-fool’s knot, flipped it overboard 
with a graceful wave of his hand, hke a conjuror fin- 
ishing a sleight-of-hand performance, and smiled 
kindly at Dick. 

“What do you mean by a ^lime-juicer,’ Lee?” 
said I. 

“Well,” said Lee, “that is what they caU English 
ships, iVIr. Grant, because aU their gmb is salt, and 
they serve out rations of lime-juice to keep away the 
scurvy.” 

“ But how do you know that it is an English ship ? ” 
said Dick. 

“ WTiy, now, Mr. Preston,” replied Lee, reproach- 


164 


DICK. 


fiiUy, Englisli is written all over her. It is in big 
letters on her canvas. Whenever yon see white cloth 
like that, you may be sure it is Johnny Bull that is 
carrying it. You see, Mr. Preston,” he continued, 
lowering his tone as though imparting a great secret, 
“ you always want to keep your eyes open. Now, do 
you see how her weather-leeches are lifting ? ” 

Yes,” rephed Dick, promptly, they are holding 
her too close to the wind.” 

Well, not exactly that,” said Lee j “ she is bring- 
ing us a change of wind, and by eight beUs we^ll have 
it off here from the east, and, judging from the looks 
of it, the young gentlemen on the main-royal will 
have a chance to furl it before long. Now, I won- 
der if they’ll leave a turn in the bunt-gasket hke they 
did last time ^ ” 

Before Dick had time to repel this personal allusion, 
he being, in fact, one of the young gentlemen on the 
main-royal, the order was given to lay aft to the 
braces. Lee repeated the order in the officially gruff 
tones of a boatswain’s mate, and trilling a few inquir- 
ing, bird-Hke notes on his pipe, lifted his eyebrows 
at Dick, as he moved away. 

Sure enough, before noon it was blowing heavily 
from the east and the sea getting up, as it does very 
quickly off the Newfoundland coast. By three 
o’clock we had taken in our hght sails, and it seemed 
probable that we would reef topsails before night. 
We had no object in carrying sail, and the cap- 
tains of practice ships were always cautious, having 
so many midshipmen aboard. We were not even 


DICK. 


165 


permitted to attend to our duties aloft in a gale, but 
were supposed to give place to the sailor-men ; which, 
being the case, the wilder the gale the more we con- 
sidered it the proper thing to go aloft. If we could, 
get as far as the top without challenging the notice 
of the officer of the deck, we were generally undis- 
turbed. My station was in the maintop, and I had 
gone there at noon to stand my regular watch. 
Toward four o^clock, being wet and tired, I was look- 
ing forward to eight beUs with considerable impa- 
tience. Standing by the edge of the top, holding on 
to the rigging, I gazed down on the rough scene, and 
tried my best not to be sick as the ship reared its 
huge bulk in the air one moment, and the next, 
descending with a velocity that seemed to leave a 
part of me up in the air, buried its mighty side with 
a rumble and a roar in the dark waters. 

Presently, I saw some one coming up the lee rig- 
ging. As the weather rigging was the proper road 
up, I knew that it must be one of the midshipmen 
trying to sneak his way into the top, probably to be 
on hand when the topsails were reefed. The rigging 
was wet with the driving mist and spray, and as the 
ship pitched and rolled a good deal, it was evident 
that the aspiring youth found it no easy matter to 
make the ascent. Then I saw that it was Dick. 
Simultaneously with my discovery, he was seen from 
below and- peremptorily ordered back on deck. Dick 
paused and looked down, discomfited, I suppose, by 
his failure, and then commenced his descent just as 
the ship gave a long roll to leeward. Suddenly she 


166 


DICK. 


fetched up all standing, with a jerk that snatched 
the wet ratlines out of his grasp. For a second he 
clutched wildly for a hold, and then, turning half- 
way around, fell headlong over the side and dis- 
appeared in the whirl of waters. 

Unable to realize the awful truth at first, I was 
paralyzed, then, with a thrill of horror, I yelled ^^Man 
overboard!^’ But the disaster had been seen from 
the deck. There was a rush aft; midshipmen and 
sailors crowded confusedly on the quarter. Suddenly 
the crowd was parted right and left, and the next 
moment I saw the powerful form of a sailor, bare- 
headed and bare-footed, standing on the rail. 
Balanciug himself for one instant, as the ship rolled, 
the next he sprang out into the gulf beneath. In 
that instant I recognized the broad back and yellow 
hair. It was Lee. 

Meantime the orders of the officer of the deck w^ere 
ringing out above the confusion. Silence, fore and 
aft ! Every man to his station ! Lay aft the life-boafs 
crew ! Man the weather main-braces ! ” 

There was no need to tell the men to ‘‘ look alive.” 
The boat was manned and lowered, and, after some 
little trouble with the heavy sea, cleared itself of the 
ship’s side, and was soon tossing in our wake, the 
men layiug their backs down to the thwarts as they 
straiued their sinews at the oars. In the meanwhile, 
the ship was hove to, and there was nothing to be 
done except wait, which was hard enough. I had 
gone up to the cross-trees for a better view, but the 
day was closing in early, and the air was full of fiy- 


DICK. 


167 


ing mist, so that I could catch only an occasional 
ghmpse of the boat as it heaved np on end on the 
swell of a sea, and soon I lost even that. Then I sat 
there clinging to the mast, straining my eyes over 
the smooth, oily billows, that came from out of the 
distance, creeping np to the ship’s side, np, np, nntd 
rearing their hnge heads, seething and hissing, they 
over-reached themselves and fell back with a snllen 
roar, crashing the dark, glassy snrface of the water, 
lighting it np for an instant with phosphorescent 
sparks j fancying that I saw Dick’s white hands in 
the pale, crawling foam and glittering bnbbles which, 
like discovered spirits, hnrriedly disappeared in the 
gathering darkness, while an answering signal of 
salt, white spnme gleamed ghostly far down in the 
depths. And all the time I kept repeating to myself 
what one of the old sailors in the top had said : 
“ There’s jnst one chance in ten thousand ! ” with a 
swift despairing realization of how fond I was of the 
boy. At last, when the suspense began to grow un- 
bearable, and I wondered desperately why nothing 
else was done, the deck was hailed from the foretop, 
and the boat reported approaching from quite a dif- 
ferent direction to that in which my inexperienced 
eyes had been gazing. As it tossed its way nearer, 
I saw, with a sinking heart, that there was only one 
extra man in the boat. It was not until it was along- 
side that I discovered a form covered v/ith a pea- 
jacket lying in the stern-sheets. When the boat was 
hoisted, and Dick was carried below, we aU thought 
that he was dead. As for Lee, he cahnly superin- 


168 


DICK. 


tended the hoisting of the boat, piped belay/^ and 
went off about his business as though what he had 
just done was a part of his ordinary daily routine. 

Dick was not dead. He was very nearly, though, 
and it was a long time before he recovered from the 
shock and exposure. In fact, I do not think that he 
ever did recover entirely. His was too sensitive an 
organization for such an experience. Even after the 
cruise was over and we had resumed our regular life 
at the academy, he would not infrequently start up 
in the night with a cry, and I knew that he was 
dreaming of that struggle for life. At such times 
when I would try to reason with him, he would say, 
“ Jim, you don’t know what it is like ! My God ! 
you can’t begin to know what it is like, to be strug- 
ghng body and soul to get to the air, and yet feel your- 
self going down, down, all the time, down! And 
have tons of water keep bearing you down, deeper 
and deeper, blinding you and strangling you with 
the salt, until your heart bursts, and you feel as 
though you were going mad 1 ” 

His gratitude to Lee was pathetic. He sent for 
him the moment he was web enough, after the acci- 
dent, and tried to thank him, but, in his weak and 
over-wrought condition, could only give him his hand 
while he turned away his head and cried. Remem- 
ber, he was only fifteen. Lee, of course, made light 
of what he had done, and protested against Dick’s 
taking it so much to heart. Then looking intently 
at the small, white hand that lay in his great, sun- 
baked, hairy fist, he said, in a low tone ; “ Why, see 


DICK. 


169 


now, Mr. Preston, this is nothing to what Pd do for 
you,” and so left rather abruptly. I heard him a few 
minutes after, on the forecastle, threatening one of 
the steerage boys with a strange and horribly com- 
plicated death for having slopped some water on the 
deck, and growling at the forecastle hands, generally, 
for a set of damned swabs that did not know a ring- 
bolt from a dead-eye. 

As I have said, when we had resumed the routine 
of academy hfe after this cruise, Dick seemed to me 
to have changed. I can most easily express my 
meaning by saying that he appeared to have lost the 
faculty of seeing things in a humorous light. About 
the time that we had attained the dignity of being 
first classmen, the war broke out, and the academy 
was removed to Newport. Dick, at this period, nearly 
eighteen years old, was a straight, slender lad, with 
the assurance and dash that come of the physical 
training at the academy, tempered, as I say, with a 
gravity that seemed scarcely natural in a boy of his 
age. His big, brown eyes had grown more pensive 
than ever 5 in fact, one glance from them was enough 
to break any girl’s heart. Of course, at Newport there 
was a good deal of social gayety, and there were 
plenty of pretty girls who, I fancy, would not have 
objected to having their hearts broken by Dick. But 
Dick did not seem to care for that kind of amuse- 
ment, which, again, I thought was rather odd. At 
first I used to fancy that Dick’s experience in drown- 
ing (for Lee afterward told us that he was insensible 
when he found him) had chilled his enthusiasm for 


170 


DICK. 


the profession. But since then, I have been super- 
stitions enough to think that it was not so much 
what had happened, as a foreboding of what was 
going to happen, that was depressing Dick^s spirits. 
However, be all this as it may, when we graduated, 
Dick, being the youngest in the class, seemed the 
oldest. While the rest of us were pleasantly excited 
over the fact that we were not only going into active 
service, but were going to take part in actual war- 
fare, and were giving vent to our feelings in a prim- 
itive way, Dick treated us as though we were children, 
and could not see anything in the prospect to make 
any one jubilant. 

At our own request, he and I were ordered to the 
same ship. It was the Terror , fitting out at New 
London. When we joined her we found, much to 
Dick’s pleasure, that Lee was among the crew. We 
knew that, at the outbreak of the war, Lee had been 
given a warrant j but, before six months had passed, 
he had got drunk, and been court-martialed and re- 
duced. Dick, whose gratitude and friendship had 
never slackened during these three years, Lad taken 
this very much to heart. Of course, the difference 
in their stations, now that Dick was in active service 
and Lee’s superior officer, no longer permitted the 
half -intimate relations that had existed in our aca- 
demic days. Lee would have been the first to check 
any such derogation on the part of his former pupil. 
In fact, nothing pleased Lee better than to have Dick 
assert himself as became an officer. When he was 
on deck no hitch or failure that was possible to avoid 


DICK. 


171 


occurred when Dick gave an order. To be sure, all 
orders are obeyed promptly, but there are various 
ways of obeying, and, with some officers, the rigging 
fouls, or the ropes get jammed in the blocks, more 
easily than with others. It was superb to see Lee’s 
wonderful strength and activity brought into play, 
very often as a personal matter for Dick’s sake. For 
instance, once, when a squad struck us with studding 
sails set and Dick was on the forecastle superiutend- 
ing the shortening of sail forward, something went 
wrong aloft, so that he could not get the topmast 
studding sail in. The boom was likely to be carried 
away, and the officer of the deck was shouting through 
the storm at Dick, who was doing his best to make 
the men aloft reach the cause of the trouble. Quick 
as thought, Lee, who was alongside of him in his old 
position of boatswain’s mate, sprang into the rigging, 
was up on the main yard in an instant, and, runniug 
out upon it like a tight-rope dancer, with an exertion 
of his whole body he jerked loose the obstructing 
ropes. How he could hold on, with the yard plung- 
ing like a bucking horse and both his hands em- 
ployed, I do not know. It was one of his peculiar 
qualities, his feet seemed almost as useful as a mon- 
key’s up aloft. I noticed when he came down that a 
great piece was tom out of the palm of his left hand, 
but he paid no attention to it. Very often, when 
they were on watch together, Lee would stid talk 
freely to Dick about matters of seamanship, but 
when Dick would make the conversation personal 
with a view to persuading him to give up whiskey 


172 


DICK. 


and try once more for a warrant, Lee had always the 
same reply : “ It’s no nse, Mr. Preston, it’s no nse.” 
If Dick pressed the subject Lee would suddenly re- 
member the difference in their stations in such a way 
as to prevent any further persistence. 

WeU, we had been in commission about three 
months, and had just returned to New London. As 
we had been cruising all of this time, the men, on our 
arrival, were given liberty j that is, a certain number 
from each of the watches was allowed twenty-four 
hours ashore. It was customary to send a midship- 
man in charge of the boat which took the sailors off, 
with orders to bring back those who had been on 
hberty the preceding day. It was not a pleasant 
duty, because the men who were to be brought back 
were generally more or less under the influence of 
liquor, and often proved a turbulent lot to handle. 

One evening, when Dick was detailed on this ser- 
vice, he learned that Lee was one of those whom he 
was to bring back. Knowing Lee’s weak point, Dick 
feared that he would not be at the wharf at the 
appointed hour. War methods prevailed in the 
service at this time, and delinquencies, that in periods 
of peace were considered venial, were now met with 
swift and severe punishment. The idea of having 
Lee punished was so repugnant to Dick that he made 
up his mind, before starting, to find him and bring 
him back at aU hazards. When, therefore, he arrived 
at the boat-stairs and inspected the motley company 
collected there, he was greatly relieved to find Lee 
asleep among some dunnage on the wharf. 


DICK. 


173 


As I have said, it was a difficult matter to bring 
off a lot of half-drunken hberty-men, some hilarious, 
some combative, and all with a tendency to go back 
to the town, or overboard, or anywhere except into the 
boat, especially as the boat’s crew proper had to be 
watched to prevent their slipping away on their own 
account. So Dick permitted Lee to sleep undisturbed 
until all of the other men were safely stowed away 
in the boat. Then, gomg to him alone, he shook him 
by the shoulder, and told him to get up. Lee opened 
his eyes and stared vacantly around, and then slowly 
got upon his feet. Dick saw immediately that he was 
too drunk to know what he was domg, but relying 
upon his personal influence, he said to him, quietly : 

Get into the boat, Lee. We are going off to the 
ship.” 

But Lee gazed stupidly at him, without responding. 

Lee,” said Dick, get iuto the boat, like a good 
fellow.” 

“ No,” said Lee, Anally, a dogged, ugly look replac- 
ing his vacuous expression, “ I am not going in any 
boat.” 

Lee,” said Dick, anxiously, “ don’t you know who 
I am ? I am Mr. Preston.” 

Mr. Preston ? ” said Lee, hazily j “ who said any- 
thing against Mr. Preston ? He’d better not say it 
before me ! ” brandishing his arms j “ I’d do anything 
in God’s world for that boy.” 

I am Mr. Preston, Lee,” repeated Dick, “ and I 
want you to get in that boat.” 

‘‘No,” said Lee, “you can’t play that on me.” 


174 


DICK. 


And putting out his arm, he roughly pushed Dick 
aside, and started to walk off. 

Dick quickly placed himself once more in front of 
him , and, puttiag his hand upon his breast, said: 

Stop ! you can’t go up-town.” 

Who says I can’t 1 ” said Lee, in his slow, dehb- 
erate way, swaying from side to side. 

say so,” said Dick. ^‘Are you going to get 
aboard that boat ? ” 

No, I’m not going to get aboard any boat, and 
there’s no one can make me ! ” said Lee, once more 
raising his huge fists threateningly. 

We’ll see about that,” said Dick ; and, drawing 
his sword, he shouted for the coxswain. 

Scarcely had the word left his hps when Lee, 
drawing back his arm, with aU his enormous strength 
dealt Dick a blow on the side of his head that 
knocked him ten feet away, a senseless heap. Then, 
without a pause, he ran up toward the town and was 
out of sight before the coxswain had got his head 
above the boat-stairs. 

The men in the boat, being below the level of the 
wharf, had, of course, seen nothing of aU this, nor, 
owing to the noise made by the liberty-men, had 
they heard anything to make them suspect what was 
occurring. When, therefore, the coxswain stepped 
upon the wharf and found Dick lying there uncon- 
scious, he was greatly astonished and unable to 
account for his condition. When they brought Dick 
aboard the ship he was still insensible. Then the sur- 
geon made liis examination, and, while we waited for 


DICK. 


175 


liis decision, the work of the ship went on in a subdued 
way that told how much every one was concerned. 

The surgeon’s report came at last. The lad’s life 
was in danger. He was suffering from concussion 
of the brain, and, not being physically robust, he did 
not rally or respond to the doctor’s treatment. The 
latter said that he might die without regaining con- 
sciousness, or that he might regain his senses in a 
' measure. He could not say positively that he would 
not live, but the present indications were very alarm- 
ing. Meantime arose the question of who had done 
this. Of course, it will be understood that the 
details of the encounter, which I have related, I 
learned long afterward, and that, at the time, I knew 
as little as any one. The surgeon stated that Dick 
had been struck. The coxswain’s story of hearing 
his officer call him, and, on going on the wharf, find- 
ing him lying there, insensible, with his drawn sword 
some distance away, corroborated this, and left only 
the one point to be cleared: who was the man? 
Suspicion quickly fastened on Lee, he being the only 
one on the wharf besides Dick at the time, and the 
only member of the crew who was not accounted for. 
I was sent ashore to arrest Lee and bring him off. 
I never went on duty that was more to my liking. 
But, although I was gone aU day, and raided every 
grog-shop, boarding-house, dive, and dead-fall in 
New London, I could not find my man. Leaving 
his description with the police and the amount of the 
reward offered for his capture, I went back to the 
ship, disappointed and despondent. 


176 


DICK. 


The captain had had a cot swung for Dick in his 
cabin, that being the coolest and airiest place between 
decks. He sent for me after I had reported my 
return, and, knowing, I presume, what friends Dick 
and I were, told me that if the doctor had no objec- 
tions I might come in and sit with him whenever I 
desired; for which kindness I was very grateful. 
The captain also told me to avail myself of the first 
opportunity to discover from Dick who had struck 
him, so that his testimony might be taken. But for 
two days and nights the poor boy was either uncon- 
scious or delirious, and all the time he seemed to be 
growing whiter and thinner. 

Late in the afternoon of the third day his eyes 
opened and wandered around, until they rested on 
my face. Then I knew that he recognized me. I 
hardly dared draw my breath, for fear that my 
excitement should affect his slender chances. Finally 
his lips moved, and I leaned over him. 

What has happened ! ” he whispered. 

“You were hurt,” I said, “but you are getting 
better.” 

For a long time he remained silent, evidently puz- 
zled. Then he looked at me again. “How long 
have I been sick ? ” 

“ Three days,” I told him. 

I saw that he was studying my face. No doubt 
my distress had left its mark there, for gradually his 
great eyes, circled with dark shadows, filled with 
vague alarm, and he said : “ Am I very sick ? ” 

“No,” I replied as stoutly as I could, “you are 


DICK. 


177 


all right. I’U go and teU the doctor that yon are 
awake.” 

“ Yes, do,” he said, with feeble anxiety j “ I feel so 
strange.” Then he added : Don’t leave me.” 

I sent for the surgeon, who came instantly. But 
before he arrived Dick seemed to have fallen into a 
doze. He opened his eyes again when the doctor 
felt his pulse, and answered his questions faintly, but 
with a sort of eagerness. I saw from the doctor’s 
expression that the symptoms were unfavorable. 
Dick saw it, too, for he whispered in an awe-struck 
way : “ Am I going to die ? ” 

“ I am afraid so, Preston,” said the doctor, gravely. 

Then Dick raised his suppUcating eyes to the doc- 
tor’s face and said in a trembling voice, “ But I don’t 
want to die.” And when the doctor gave liim no 
comfort, he turned to me. 

Cursing the man who had brought him to this, 
and the doctor’s powerlessness and my own helpless, 
useless self, I hid my face in my hands. Then Dick 
turned away his head from us both. When I looked 
at him again he seemed half asleep, although his 
shoulders moved every now and then. 

The long afternoon passed slowly. Friends softly 
came and went, but he had asked me not to leave 
him, and my messmates willingly stood my watch 
on deck. He was conscious only a part of the time, 
and then he talked of his mother and pitied her. 
Lee’s name he did not mention, nor could I induce 
him to teU me aught of the attack made upon him. 
When I urged him, he simply closed his eyes and 
12 


178 


DICK. 


made no effort to reply. The line that separated 
hiTn from unconsciousness was so fine that I dared 
not be too persistent. When the last rays of the 
setting sun shone in level through the open port, he 
awoke from a short slumber, seeming so much more 
cheerful that I felt a httle hope, and ventured to say 
so. But he slowly shook his head and whispered. 
No ; only it does not seem to make very much dif- 
ference now.” Suddenly and most unexpectedly he 
added, “ Has Lee come back ? ” This was the first 
time that I felt sure that he had succeeded in remem- 
bering the events of that fatal afternoon. But when 
I told him that Lee had not returned, and again 
urged him to tell me if Lee was the man who had 
injured him, he simply sighed and remained silent. 
When he again spoke it was of our past life at 
the academy. Once, long ago, he had told me that 
his father had been a navy officer, and that before 
he had died he had expressed a wish that he, Dick, 
should follow the same profession. Both he and his 
mother had held this wish sacred, so much so that 
the moment Dick had been of the reciumed age he 
had entered the academy, although it was a sore trial 
for his mother to part with her only child. And 
now, referring to this, the poor boy said, ‘‘ I donT 
think that I was exactly fitted for the fife, but I tried 
my best to act like a man and do what I thought 
was the right thing.” 

I said, and with reason, “ No fellow in the class was 
more of a man, Dick. Everybody says that. God 
knows you have done your duty if any one ever did 1 ” 


DICK. 


179 


He thanked me with his eyes, and then whispered, 

Don’t cry, Jim.” For that last remark of his had 
completely broken me down. 

The sun had set, and it was dark except for a swing- 
ing lamp that the servant had lighted in another 
part of the cabin. Dick was dozing, and I, com- 
pletely worn out, was half asleep. Suddenly I was 
startled by hearing the quartermaster on deck hail a 
boat. I could not understand the reply, nor seem- 
ingly could the watch, for they hailed again, sharply, 
^^Boat ahoy ! ” Then I made out the answer, Police 
boat. We’ve got one of your men ! ” Somehow I 
knew that the man was Lee. Dick stirred, but his 
eyes remained closed and he did not answer when I 
spoke to him. Shortly afterward the doctor came 
in and looked at him and felt his pulse, without 
arousing him. Then he beckoned me to one side, 
and said : Lee has just been brought aboard.” I 
nodded my head, and he continued, The captain is 
disappointed in not getting Preston’s testimony 
about tliis alfair, and he is going to have Lee brought 
in to see if Preston can identify him.” 

I did not care so much now about discovering 
Dick’s assailant j all my thoughts were for Dick, and 
I dreaded the scene on his account. I asked the 
doctor what his condition was. He pulled his beard 
thoughtfully and said, That is just it. I am afraid 
that he won’t live through the night. In fact, there 
is no time to be lost.” 

At this moment the captain, accompanied by two 
of the officers, came in. They had a short consulta- 


180 


DICK. 


tion witli the surgeon, in which I took no part, having 
gone back to Dick^s side. Then they all gathered 
around the cot, and the doctor lifted Dick up and 
gave him some medicine. This seemed to have the 
desired effect of restoring him to consciousness, for 
he opened his eyes and looked around with percep- 
tible intelligence. With my arm around him, I 
explained the matter as gently as I could. As I spoke, 
the clanking of chains was heard. The door opened 
and Lee, with handcuffs on his wrists and shackles 
on his legs, came slowly in, followed by a marine 
sentry. They stopped a short distance from Dick, 
Lee in the shadow, with his head upon his breast. 
Dick’s hoUow eyes mutely followed aU these arrange- 
ments. Then the doctor said in a low but perfectly 
audible voice : Do you understand what I am say- 
ing, Mr. Preston?” 

Dick whispered Yes,” with a shght movement of 
his head. 

Are you in a mental condition to understand the 
solemn nature of an oath ? ” 

Again Dick assented, and the doctor turning to 
the captain, said, It is my opinion, sir, that his tes- 
timony at the present moment would be vahd.” 

Then Dick whispered to me with an effort, and I 
saw that his life was going fast. He wants Lee to 
come closer, sir,” I said, huiTiedly. 

At a signal from the captain, Lee advanced to the 
side of the cot and looked down upon the dying boy. 
Though liis head was still sunk upon his breast, I, 
from my position, could see up into his weather- 


DICK. 


181 


beaten face. It was aU drawn and working, Hke a 
child’s about to cry, and his immense shoulders were 
trembling, but he uttered no sound. Dick’s eyes 
rested upon him for a moment, and then turned to 
the face of the officer, who meantime had come for- 
ward to administer the oath. The rippling of the 
water and the distant noises of the town could be 
heard in the silence. It was a solemn scene which 
none of us are ever likely to forget. 

At a word from the captain I raised the white, 
wasted hand that the oath might be taken in due 
form. But as I did so Dick surprised me with a 
look which plainly forbade it, a look which almost 
reproached me. I paused anxiously but vainly, 
endeavoring to read his thoughts, for it seemed to 
me as though he wanted something. At last he 
turned his great, unsatisfied brown eyes once more 
to the downcast face of the sailor on the other side. 
With an effort he moved his hand untd it rested on 
Lee’s, from whence it slipped weakly down upon 
the chain which bound his wrists. A wonderful 
expression passed across his face, an expression of 
compassion and infinite pity. His lips framed the 
words, Poor old Lee ! ” and with the exertion, his 
head dropped back upon my shoulder, and Dick was 
dead. 

###**** 

There is but little more to tell. Lee was tried by 
court-martial. He escaped with his life because 
there was not sufficient evidence to convict him. 
His punishment took another form. From the night 


182 


DICK. 


that Dick died he became sullen and morose. He 
devoted aU of his resources to the one object of 
obtaining whiskey, and being dangerous when drunk, 
he spent most of his time in irons. From being the 
best sailor aboard he became quite worthless, and by 
reason of his influence among the crew, a perpetual 
menace. At last, one bitterly cold night, while the 
ship was lying at anchor in New York harbor, he 
lowered himself overboard and swam ashore. He 
was reported as a deserter, but slight efforts were 
made to recover him, or even discover whether he 
had ever reached the shore, as it was a rehef to have 
him out of the ship. 

It could not have been more than a week after 
Lee’s departure that I received a message from the 
surgeon in charge of Bellevue Hospital, saying that 
a sailor who had been badly hurt and was in a dying 
condition, wanted to see me immediately. It was 
not an unusual summons, for our men not infre- 
quently ended their shore cruises ashore in the 
hospital. When I aiTived, unsuspecting the truth, 
the attendant who showed me in to the ward told me 
that the man had refused to give his name. All that 
he knew about him was that he had been rim over 
by a switch-engine near the Forty-second Street 
depot. He was drunk and tried to cross the track in 
front of the locomotive, and had been knocked down 
and terribly mangled. He could not live many hours, 
he said, and would not have lived this long had he 
not a powerful physique.' As he spoke he stopped 
by the side of the cot on which lay the patient, and 


DICK. 


183 


I saw that it was Lee. He was suffei-ing acutely 
and speech was painful and laborious, but he insisted 
on talking. It was from his hps, under these cir- 
cumstances, that I learned the details of his assault 
upon Dick. 

‘^And now,” he said, in conclusion, “you may 
beheve it or not, as you like, Mr. Grant, but last 
night was the first I remembered anything about it. 
They say lots of things come back to a man when 
he’s dying, and this came back to me. Not but 
what I knew aU along that I must have done it, but 
I never knew before how I had done it. And, mind 
you, I’m not telling you this because I care anything 
for you, for I never did, except that he was your 
friend. It isn’t that I care what you think — he un- 
derstands, and that’s enough, but when I knew the 
truth I felt forced to teU somebody. I ought to have 
pleaded guilty on the court,” he added, excitedly, rais- 
ing his bandaged head to look at me. “ That’s what 
I ought to have done. I ought to have pleaded guilty 
anyway, and gone out with the marines, or swung 
from the yard-arm, and so wiped off the score. 
What would shooting or hanging have been to what 
I have gone through since ! You remember the 
night he died, sir? He put his hand on mine, and” 
— flowering his voice to a whisper — “ it’s been there 
ever since, leading me on. And when I got drunk 
to get away from him, it was only so much the 
worse, for I’d have to go through that business on 
the wharf all over again. Me ! as would have done 
anything in God’s world for the boy!” A long. 


184 


DICK. 


shuddering sigh shook his great chest. “ He knew 
that, but he knew that my life must pay for it just 
the same, and so did I. ’Twas him that led me on 
to the track last night. And afterward, when they 
brought me here, he came and stood alongside of me, 
and I knew he was sorry for me and forgave me, 
because, just before he went away, he laid his hand 
on mine once more, and said, in that pretty way of 
his, Poor old Lee ! ” 


THE OLD SPANISH BEDSTEAD. 


A GHOST STORY. 


The Rancho del San Fernando lay basking in the 
heat. League upon league of dried grain and gi’ass 
land waved off into the trembling blue of the foot- 
hills, broken only by a single white spot, where the 
adobe ranch-house glistened like a pearl set in the 
great golden expanse. Occasionally, a little column 
of dust, whirled by a passing eddy of air straight up 
into the deep blue sky, suggested exertion, but even 
that was soon drowsily dissipated into the universal 
siesta of an August noon. About a mile from the 
house a sinuous line of sycamores and cotton- woods 
marked the bed of a creek. The creek was dry, of 
course, at this time of the year, although its high 
bank littered with driftwood, and the huge tree 
trunks and boulders jammed in a confused tangle at 
the turns, proved that there were times when one 
could not sit on a three-legged stool in the middle 
of it and paint pictures. 

This was what Pepita thought, with a feehng that 
her favorite haunt was being disrespectfully used by 


186 


THE OLD SPANISH BEDSTEAD. 


the presuming stranger beneath her, even if the back 
of his head was nice-looking. The back of his head 
was all she could see from her perch on the end of a 
tipped-up log. The jays kept up such a chattering, 
that the subject of her scrutiny had evidently not 
heard her approach. In fact, Pepita might have been 
mistaken for one of those styhsh birds herself, as 
she stood holding her blue skirt back very tight 
agaiust her slender form, and with her two black 
eyes peered over at the close-cropped blonde head 
beneath her. 

The artist suddenly dipped his brush into the 
paint, whereupon a squirrel which had wandered 
near, intent on his search for nuts, fled hastily up a 
tree, and from the highest limbs barked down at him 
protestingly. 

Shut up ! ” said the artist. 

Whereat Pepita herseK drew back in some alarm. 
As she did so she heard a noise behind her, and 
turning saw, to her rehef, her brother on the bank. 
Like a flash her finger was pressed against her lips 
in a signal of silence. Then, beckoning to the boy, 
she renewed her pretty signal with each stealthy step 
he took up the sloping log, until he was beside her. 
Putting her arm around his neck, she leaned over 
with him, and pointing to the painter beneath, 
glanced up into his eyes to enjoy his surprise. But 
at this interesting moment, the driftwood which had 
held down the other end of the log slowly gave way 
imder the additional weight and shd Pepita and her 
brother down on top of the unsuspecting artist. 


THE OLD SPANISH BEDSTEAD. 


187 


There was a rustling and cracking of dried branches, 
a httle scream from Pepita and a crash, as the log, 
relieved of its load, fell back in its place. The artist 
sprang to his feet, upset his easel and stool, and, 
with his palette for a shield and his maul-stick for a 
spear, faced around on his unknown assailant, pale 
but determined. As his eyes rested on the boy, who, 
with red downcast face, stood in front of him pok- 
ing a hole in the gravel with the toe of his boot, the 
artist drew a long breath, and finally said, after a 
moments survey had convinced him that it was a 
boy, ‘^Now, where the devil did you come from?” 
Then, before Miguel could recover his assurance suf- 
ficiently to reply, the artist had discovered Pepita. 
She stood with her back toward them, her face buried 
in her hands, while her shoulders shook convulsively. 

“ Why, hello ! ” exclaimed the painter in astonish- 
ment. But the next moment he was by her side, and 
gently laying his hand on her arm with entire altera- 
tion of his manner, and in a voice full of sympathy, 
he said, Have you hurt yourself ? Don’t cry ! ” 

At this Pepita let fall her hands, and turning away 
her head, peal after peal of laughter rang out in the 
still air. 

The artist, at first somewhat puzzled, gradually 
allowed his features to relax into a smile. 

Did you think it was a bear ? ” said Pepita, look- 
ing at him shyly from under her long lashes. 

“I did not have time to think,” said the artist, 
laughing in turn at the absurdity of the situation. 

Miguel alone did not join in the merriment, but 


188 ' 


THE OLD SPANISH BEDSTEAD. 


turning to his sister, he said rapidly in Spanish, It 
is hke you, Senorita Pepita de Novero ! You are 
always doing some foohsh thing and then laughing 
at it. What do you suppose the Sehor thinks of 
you? See, too, you have ruined his picture. You 
make me ashamed for us both ! ” 

“ I beg your pardon,” interrupted the artist, care- 
lessly, ‘‘ but I understand Spanish. As for the acci- 
dent,” he continued, it is lucky you were not hurt.” 

“ But your painting, Sehor,” said Pepita, penitently, 
“ ah, sainted mother, but the rocks have torn a hole 
right through the cow ! ” 

Oh, that is of no consequence,” said the artist. 

I had only just begun it, and another piece of can- 
vas 'Will make that all right.” 

Still we owe you an apology, Sehor,” said the 
boy, loftUy. 

‘^On the contrary,” said the artist, ‘4t is I who 
owe you an apology for being here, if, as I judge, 
you are and he hesitated inquiringly. 

‘‘Don Miguel de Novero, at your service, Sehor, 
and this,” he added dubiously, “ is my sister, Sehorita 
Pepita.” 

“ My name is Frank Taylor,” said the artist, taking 
off his hat and bowing to the girl, who, with aU the 
fun gone out of her face, acknowledged the salutation 
gracefully, though gravely ; even a little proudly, for 
Miguel was right. She should not have allowed her- 
self to be so familiar with this stranger. Whal^ could 
he think of her, so boisterous and free ? Not that it 
made any difference to her what he thought, only 


THE OLD SPANISH BEDSTEAD. 


189 


she felt hot and uncomfortable. Why did not Miguel 
say good-bye,” or whatever these stupid Americans 
were in the habit of saying, and come away ! 

But the boy having succeeded so well in raising a 
barrier of formality, seemed at a loss what next to 
do. A hollow booming sound from the ranch-house 
came to his relief. There is the horn for dinner ! ” 
he exclaimed. ‘‘We must hurry; you know how 
Margaretta scolds if we are late.” 

Then, with a httle inclination of her head to the 
artist, Pepita walked quietly away by the side of her 
brother. But presently they stopped, evidently in 
discussion, which growing more animated, enabled 
the artist to hear the girl say, “ I did not think of 
that, but because I w^as silly it does not become us 
to be rude. He is a stranger on our land, Miguel, 
and hospitality is what our dear father taught us. 
However, you are the man ; it is for you to say, not 
me,” and with that she walked on. 

The boy hesitated a moment, looking after her, and 
then at the artist. Finally he returned and said to 
Taylor, with some embarrassment, “ Will the Sehor 
come to our house and share our dinner ? ” 

At first Taylor, who was strapping his painting 
gear together, was about to decline, but a second 
thought or a second glance, perhaps, in the direction 
that Pepita had taken, induced him to alter his mind 
and accept the boy’s invitation. 

The San Fernando ranch-house was built in the 
form of a rectangle, around an interior court. A 
low, one-storied house, with tiled roof, its white 


190 


THE OLD SPANISH BEDSTEAD. 


exterior was glaring hot and unpromising enough, 
but, passing through the large room or hall into the 
interior court, a scene cool and home-hke comforted 
the stranger. A porch surrounded three sides of 
this yard, into which the doors and windows of all 
the rooms opened. Here, in the shade of lemon 
and olive trees, where grape-vines and honeysuckles 
climbed up to the roof, most of the members of the 
household were gathered when Taylor, conducted by 
his youthful host, made his appearance. The hospi- 
tahty of the native Californian at home upon his 
ranch is well known. Like the feudal land-holders 
of ancient England, they entertain aU who come, 
high or low, with unquestioning hberahty and court- 
esy. No matter how unexpected the guest, the best 
that the ranch affords was placed at his disposal. 
It was therefore a hearty, if formal, welcome that 
Taylor received on being presented to the mistress 
of the hquse. During the course of the noonday 
meal, to which the family shortly sat down, he was 
made to feel entirely at home, a result materially 
assisted by his own natui’al adaptability and knowl- 
edge of Spanish. 

The Sehora de Novero, as Taylor rightly guessed, 
was a widow. Pepita and Miguel were her only 
children. She had had one other, a baby, as in after 
days she told Taylor, but it had died. That was 
years ago,” she said, when speaking of it, “ but some- 
times I wake up in the night, even now, and think I 
hear it cry. And then, oh, merciful Jesus, I cry 
myself, for I want my baby,” while the tears welled 


THE OLD SPANISH BEDSTEAD. 


191 


into her eyes at the recollection, in pity of herself. 
Whereat Pepita and her brother had come simple 
and unaffectedly, one on each side of their mother, 
and had coaxed and petted her until she was once 
more laughing — as pretty a picture of family affec- 
tion as the artist, in all his travels, had seen. 

On this, the day of Taylor’s introduction, there 
were many others at the table. Beside the immedi- 
ate family, there was a plain young lady cousin from 
Los Angeles, an elderly and very dignified aunt from 
San Diego, a stout, good-looking priest from the Mis- 
sion of San Fernando, from which the ranch took its 
name, and numerous others, poor and distant rela- 
tives and retainers, who, from time to time, helped 
to wait upon the guests. Pepita came in after the 
others were seated, and, with a grave salutation to 
the assembled company, took her seat at the table. 
She did not even glance at the companion of her 
morning’s adventure, but kept her eyes upon her 
plate, answering in monosyllables the remarks 
occasionally addressed her by a swarthy-faced young 
Mexican who sat next her. Miguel sat at the head 
of the table opposite his mother, and spoke to no 
one, only from time to time looking at his sister with 
sullen dissatisfaction ; seeing which, Taylor put the 
youth down in his mind as a surly, iU-conditioned 
fellow. 

After dinner, the priest, himself a Spaniard, hav- 
ing learned that Taylor had but recently returned 
from a sojourn in Spain in pursuit of his art, car- 
ried him off to his room for a quiet chat. 


192 


THE OLD SPANISH BEDSTEAD. 


Here they found that Taylor had spent a month 
or more in the very town in which the priest was 
horn. This was too much for the good father, and 
Taylor was held a prisoner to his questions the rest 
of the afternoon. 

It was after the artist had promised him a little 
hatch of sketches, taken in his native place, that the 
priest, in the warmth and gratitude of his heart, 
talked to him about the Noveros. 

Ah, Sehor,” he said, ‘‘ they have fallen upon evil 
days. It is no longer the same family.” 

They did not seem very cheerful at the table,” 
said Taylor. “ Are they in trouble ? ” 

“ In trouble enough,” said the priest. “ Alas, it is 
a long day since I have seen Dona Maria’s eyes free 
from tears, or heard Pepita laugh. If you had ever 
heard the music of that child’s laugh, Sehor, you 
would never forget it.” 

I can imagine it,” said Taylor, innocently. But, 
if I may ask, what is the trouble ? ” 

“ They are in a fair way to lose the ranch,” replied 
the priest ; ‘‘ land that has been theirs for nigh upon 
eighty years, and aU because of a crime committed 
before any of them was born. But, worse even than 
losing the land, is my fear that Pepita wiU be be- 
trothed to the scoundrel who claims it. God forgive 
me for using harsh names, but Pedro Gonzales is a 
bad man, and she is so lovely and innocent.” 

Is that the man who sat next her at table ? ” asked 
Taylor. 

“ The same,” said the priest. 


THE OLD SPANISH BEDSTEAD. 


193 


But does she care for him ? demanded Taylor, 
with some indignation. 

‘‘ No,” said the priest, “ no, but she is of the kind 
that martyrs are made — so brave and loyal. And 
what can they do, two women and a boy ? ” 

“ And I suppose that her brother is urging her on,” 
said Taylor. 

“ Miguel ! ” exclaimed the priest, looking up in sur- 
prise, not he. On the contrary, he hates Gonzales. 
And that makes it worse. Miguel is hke all the men 
of his race, a hot-head, and I live in fear that this 
will end in bloodshed. It will not be the first time 
that a Novero has reddened his hand. No, it is 
Pepita herself. Gonzales courted her a year and 
more, but she would have none of him. But now 
that he claims the ranch and can turn them aU out, 
it is diiferent. Her father is dead, her brother is but 
a boy, and her mother cries all day, and Pepita, as I 
teU you, she is one of the kind that makes martyrs, 

and so ” the priest finished by shrugging his 

broad shoulders. 

‘^But,” urged Taylor, ‘Gf the Noveros have had 
the ranch all these years, what title can this man 
Gonzales have ? ” 

That,” said the priest, “ I do not know, except 
that he claims that the grant was made by the Span- 
ish King to a certain Juarez, a soldier who was with 
Father Serra when that sainted man, God rest his 
soul, founded the Mission of San Diego. He says 
that the Noveros were simply tenants, and that he, 
Gonzales, has purchased the title from the descend- 
• 18 


194 


THE OLD SPANISH BEDSTEAD. 


ants of Juarez, who finally went back to Spain. All 
of which,” said the priest, ‘4s a he. Gonzales has 
made his own papers, of that I feel sure. But how 
to prove it ! He has smart American law^^ers, and 
wiU succeed, alas ! ” 

“ But,” said Taylor, “ sm*ely the Noveros must have 
some proof of their ownership, some deed or docu- 
ment ! ” 

“None,” said the priest. Then, after a few 
moments’ silence, he continued : “ Do you see that 

building over there ? ” at the same time pointing 
across the court. 

The structure referred to was apparently built by 
a different hand from that which erected the main 
building, on which it abutted. The roof was higher, 
the walls were laid of adobe and stone, mixed with 
cement, and were quite thick. Although it looked 
much older and more weather-beaten than the main 
house, and the outside plastering had fallen in many 
places, it even now promised to outlast the more 
modern structure. 

“ That house,” continued the priest, “ was the one 
originally built by the first owner of the ranch, Don 
Jose Miguel de Novero, a fierce, fearless man. He 
built it when he was married, and furnished it from 
Spain. When he was past fifty his wife died, and 
within a year he had manied again, a young and 
beautiful half-breed. This girl had a lover of her 
OTO, but her people forced her to many Don Jos4. 
One night, the husband returning unexpectedly from 
a journey, found his wife and her lover together. In 


THE OLD SPANISH BEDSTEAD. 


195 


a fit of jealous rage he killed her — strangled her to 
death. What became of her lover no one ever knew, 
but it is supposed he escaped into the mountains. 
At all events, he disappeared. It was a wild country- 
in those days, and men often took the law into their 
own hands, and so the matter passed. But from 
that day to this the title deeds of the land have been 
lost. The house was shut up, and Don Jose left the 
ranch. When he died, a few years later, his chil- 
dren built this house and shunned the other, which, 
of course, had the reputation of being haunted. It 
was not until twenty years after that some question 
about the grant arose, resulting in a search for the 
documents. They looked everywhere, at Los Angeles, 
San Diego, the Mission, and particularly in that house, 
as Don Jose was known to have had the papers 
there, but it was useless — they could not be found. 
Land was plenty then, and it was of httle conse- 
quence. N ow it is different, since the Americans have 
come in here with their railroads. The land has 
become of great value, and my poor friends will lose 
it aU, and soon, I fear, as the suit comes off in a few 
days. Alas, how true it is that the sins of the father 
are visited on the children to the third and fourth 
generation.” 

It is too bad,” said Taylor, taking a secular view 
of the matter. Is there no clue whatever? ” 

None,” said the priest. “ In fact, no theory has 
ever been advanced to account for the disappearance 
of the papers, except that held by the simple-minded 
servants, that the ghost of the murdered girl has 


196 


THE OLD SPANISH BEDSTEAD. 


carried them off. But there, I am afraid I have tired 
you with my wagging tongue. It has been a relief 
to me to talk. You must stay with us to-night, it is 
growing late. I will send a messenger to your camp. 
Now, don’t say me nay. It is an act of charity. Re- 
member what it is to me to have seen one from my 
native village. Here, Juan,” called the priest to one 
of the boys in the court, “ jump upon thy horse, my 
son, and ride to the SehoBs camp. He will give thee 
a note.” 

And giving him no time to expostulate, the 
amiable priest put pencil and paper in Taylor’s 
hand. 

“ But the Sehora, Father,” said Taylor ; it may 
inconvenience her to have me stay.” 

“ On the contrary,” said the priest, “ it will please 
and honor her to think that you wih like to stay. 
So, now, Juan, my son, off with you. Meantime I 
win go and see about your room.” And so saying, 
the priest bustled away. 

Presently he returned, looking somewhat embar- 
rassed. 

“It is as I thought,” said Taylor, instantly. “It 
wiU inconvenience the Sehora.” 

“ No, my friend, no,” replied the priest, “ Dona 
Maria is delighted, as I told you she would be. But 
it seems that the only unoccupied room that is fit for 
your lordship,” he continued, half frowning, half 
laughing, “is the one across the way there. Of 
course, if it had not been for my prattling ” 

“ The haunted room ? ” interposed Taylor, “ the very 


THE OLD SPANISH BEDSTEAD. 


197 


tiling. I delight in liannted rooms. In f act^ if I had 
my choice I should have chosen that.’^ 

Really ? ” said the priest, looking greatly reheved. 
“ Of course I knew that you would have no foohsh 
fears, but there are people who — and, frankly now, 
if you would rather, you have only to say the word, 
and I will have you a bed in my room. No ? Well, 
then, that is settled.^^ 

After supper Taylor pohtely exerted himself to talk 
with his hostess. His youth and sympathy soon 
gained the confidence of the ingenuous, warm-hearted 
lady, and, after listening to the tale of her sorrows 
and troubles, he did his best to amuse her with stories 
of his artist travels, which he told with becoming 
spirit and modesty. 

What with bidding first one and then another 
come and listen, as the good lady in her satisfaction 
did, Taylor soon had quite an audience, and it was a 
late hour before the pleased circle broke up. 

Then, when good-nights were said, with aU the 
customary pretty Spanish wishes for sound slumber 
and pleasant dreams, Pepita, who had sat on a low 
stool by her mother’s side during the evening, let 
her great dark eyes meet Taylor’s for the first time, 
as she said, with some feeling in her voice : “ Thank 
you, Senor. It was very good of you to please my 
mother so.” 

Then IMiguel and the priest showed him to his room. 

There was nothing remarkable about this apart- 
ment, unless it was the huge mahogany bedstead, 
which was its principal article of furniture. Two or 


198 


THE OLD SPANISH BEDSTEAD. 


three modern chairs, a washstand, and bureau com- 
pleted its appointments. With its bare, white walls 
and rather empty appearance, it certainly did not 
carry out the popular idea of a haunted chamber, 
and Taylor, tired with his day’s adventures, would 
have thought no more about its evil reputation were 
it not for overhearing the gossip of two servants 
passing by his open window. 

The pretty Sefiora’s ghost will have a new bed- 
fellow to-night,” said one. 

u gyj-’r ! ” exclaimed the other. “ Just fancy her 
cold arms steahng around one’s neck in the dark- 
ness ! ” 

This was not cheerful to hear just as he was going 
to sleep, but it did not by any means keep the artist 
awake. 

#*##*** 

It was very dark when Taylor opened his eyes with 
a start, opened them wide with that inexplicable feel- 
ing that most persons have, at one time or another, 
experienced, a feeling that something is the matter. 
As his consciousness returned, and with it the memo- 
ries of the room he was in, he was annoyed with him- 
self for his nervousness. StiU, there was something 
wrong. 

His next impression was that there was somebody 
in the room. It was too dark to see, and so he turned 
his head to hsten. As he did so, his cheek touched 
a cold object on his pillow. A thrill of superstitious 
fear, as he thought of the murdered girl, chilled his 
marrow. But the shock so thoroughly awakened him 


THE OLD SPANISH BEDSTEAD. 


199 


that his common sense instantly came to his res- 
cue. 

Checking his impulse to spring out of bed and 
strike a match, he reached over very quietly to find out 
what was there. His warm touch fell upon cold fiesh. 
It was a human hand ! There was no doubt about 
that, for he felt on until he moved the clammy fingers. 
Then the blood slowly ebbed back to his heart. 

Again his courage rallied his common sense to the 
rescue, and forbade him to believe so monstrous a 
thing, even on the evidence of his touch. It must 
be some hallucination. Finally, raising the dead 
hand in his for a moment, he dropped it. It fell back 
on the pillow with a dull sound. 

^This was too much. With a gasp he sprang out 
of the ilL-omened bed, and tremblingly groped for 
the matches. 

He found them at last, his left hand knocking them 
over, but when he was about to raise his right to 
strike one, he discovered that it was powerless. With 
a sudden inspiration he grasped the disabled arm 
with his left hand — it had no feehng. He grasped 
his hand — it was cold and numb. 

Then the truth flashed upon him — the dead hand 
was his own ! He had been lying on his arm, and 
it had gone fast asleep. 

The exclamation of anger at his own folly that 
broke the silence changed into a laugh as Taylor felt 
his way back to bed, and proceeded to pound and 
pinch the offending arm into the condition known as 
“ pins and needles.” 


200 


THE OLD SPANISH BEDSTEAD. 


It was a long time, however, before he could com- 
pose himself to sleep once more. And when at last 
he did lose consciousness of his surroundings, his 
mind busied itseK with reminiscences of his life in 
Spain, which a short time before he had recalled for 
the amusement of his hosts. Then the story told him 
by the priest repeated itself in his dreams, the figure 
of Pepita obtruding in aU sorts of possible and 
impossible ways. He dreamed that they two, hand 
in hand, were roaming through an old castle near 
Cordova, a place he remembered well. They were 
anxiously searching for something. What it was he 
did not know, except that it was a matter of life and 
death — and time was pressing. Suddenly Gonzales, 
the Mexican, appeared fiitting ahead of them in the 
search, and Pepita, throwing her arms around Tay- 
lor’s neck, begged him to hurry. But he could not 
move, while the Mexican continued on. Then he 
heard Pepita cry out, ^^The bedstead! Have you 
searched the bedstead?” And, looking down, he 
found that it was not Pepita, but the beautiful half- 
breed wife of Don J ose ; her cold arms kept twining 
closer about his neck, closer and closer, till he was 
stranghng ! 

Once more Taylor awoke. The perspiration had 
broken out on his forehead, and he was staring wildly 
around, under the impression that some one had 
called him. 

The dawn was breaking, and he gave up trying to 
sleep. Lying there undisturbed in the beautiful 
calm of early morning, lazily hstening to the faint 


THE OLD SPANISH BEDSTEAD. 


201 


twitter of some birds nesting under the eaves, Ms 
thoughts indolently continued to busy themselves 
with Ms dream, comminghng recollections of the 
romantic Bohemian life he had led in Spain, scraps 
of legends and eerie stories told him by keepers of 
old, ruined castles and monasteries. The advice to 
search the bedstead was good enough if anything 
was lost, he idly thought, for nearly all the ancient 
furmture of Spain, particularly the bedsteads, had 
secret Mding-places. It was a very necessary pre- 
caution among that impetuous people. He remem- 
bered how he had often amused himseM searcMng 
for these secret recesses in old furmture. The bed- 
stead trick got to be so well known, however, that it 
was only in those of very old make that it was found. 
Then he once more pictured the pretty Pepita, with 
her arms around Ms neck, and thought how pleasant 
it would have been to have garroted that iU-favored 
Mexican in his dream — or out of it, for that matter. 

From that he feU to wondering whether tMs man 
Gonzales would really gain possession the ranch, 
and what the deuce that murderous old Don Jose 
could have done with the original grant. If they 
were hving in Spain, now 

Suddenly Taylor sprang to Ms feet, gave one com- 
prehensive glance at the cumbrous, mahogany bed- 
stead which had given Mm such troubled rest, and 
the next moment piUov/s, sheets, and blankets were 
flying into the middle of the room ; the huge feather- 
bed followed. Then down upon his hands and knees 
he dropped, and felt all along underneath the head- 


202 


THE OLD SPANISH BEDSTEAD. 


board. Evidently he found what he wanted, for 
excitedly seizing one of his boots, he hammered upon 
a particular spot. Then getting on his feet once 
more, he braced himself firmly, and exerting all his 
strength on the bottom of the bed near the headboard. 
Once ! Twice ! And the third time a narrow panel, 
about a foot wide and three feet long, shot back in 
its grooves so suddenly that Taylor involuntarily sat 
down. Springing to his feet before the cloud of dust 
had time to settle, Taylor shoved his hand into the 
opening. A box came first to light, which, when 
opened, disclosed a lot of trinkets, old-fashioned and 
discolored 5 then came a bundle of letters tied with a 
piece of rawhide, and finally Taylor drew forth a flat 
package folded in faded silk. In this were legal 
documents, one bearing the name of Lopez de Santa 
Ana, President of the Mexican Republic, ordering a 
complete title to certain described lands in California, 
to be issued to Sehor Don Jose Miguel de Novero, 
two were title deeds in Spanish, and the fourth was 
a parchment bearing a Maltese cross at the head, 
and a huge seal at the bottom, while upon it was 
stamped the name of Ferdinand VI., King of Spain, 
“ Yo el Eey.” Three cheers ! ” cried Taylor very 
softly to himself, as he waved his document above 
his head, “ hip ! hip ! hip ! hurrah ! hip ! hip ! hurrah ! 
hip ! hip ! hurrah ! and a tiger ! What a fool I was 
not to have thought of it before ! ” 

******* 

“ It was the hand of God ! ” said the priest. 

A month had passed, the suit had been decided 


THE OLD SPANISH BEDSTEAD. 


203 


against the Sehor Gonzales^ who had betaken him- 
self off to new fields of enterprise, and the various 
members of the Novero family were enjoying peace 
and happiness once more under the shade of the 
lemon and olive trees in the court-yard. 

“ It was the hand of God,” said the priest. “ Did 
he not lead the steps of our friend, Don Frank, to 
your door! Did he not throw our poor, troubled 
Pepita, here, into his very arms 1 ” 

“ But, father,” exclaimed Pepita, hurriedly, “ I ” 

‘‘Do not interrupt me, my daughter,” said the 
priest, gravely, “ as I say, did he not throw these 
poor children at the strangePs very feet 1 and then 
was not I the humble instrument of detaining the 
Senor for the night ? And then, against our habit, 
he was placed in that room where — where his knowl- 
edge of Spanish customs,” concluded the priest, dis- 
creetly, “ enabled him to discover those papers. A 
malediction on my stupid old brain that could not 
remember what as a boy I have heard my mother 
speak of many a time. Yes, it was the hand of 
God!” 

“ Undoubtedly,” said Taylor, who stood leaning on 
the back of the Senora’s chaii\ “And yet Pepita^s 
hand may have had something to do with it.” 

“Not so much as your own, Senor Frank,” said 
that young woman archly, at the same time pressing 
her finger to her hps with an admonishing shake of 
her head at the artist. 

“ Margaretta,” said the Senora, hesitatingly, “ Mar- 
garetta insists that the ghost of Don Jos4^s wife 


204 


THE OLD SPANISH BEDSTEAD. 


appeared to Frank and told him where to look, and 
that now the poor soul will rest — at last.” 

Margaretta is an old fool ! ” said Miguel, shortly. 
“ At the same time,” he added, reflectively, I don’t 
see why we should not make firewood out of that 
bedstead.” 


THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO. 


Franz Ritter was an artist. I first met him a 
good many years ago in Rome. A great, broad- 
shouldered young fellow, with long yellow hair, a 
newly sprouted curly beard, blue eyes, and a meer- 
schaum pipe. He seemed like one of Jean Paul’s 
characters who had strayed away from his creator’s 
pen, but was continuing right on with the romance. 
Twenty-four years old, an artist, brimming over with 
life and enthusiasm, he was as delightful as an unex- 
pected burst of music. To hear him talk one would 
think that before the year was out he was going to 
right every wrong, repair every injustice, and demol- 
ish all the meannesses, deceits and false doctrines in 
the world. He had pronounced ideas, or rather con- 
victions, of his own, on every subject, and a new set 
every day. In our afternoon walks through the park 
near the Piazza del Popolo or the Villa Borghese 
gardens, he would develop the most blood-thirsty 
anarchist sentiments. Then, like as not, while declar- 
ing himself a ruthless destroyer of existing law and 


206 


THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO. 


order, he would stop midway in his impetuous career 
to pick up a crying child, and with soft German 
mother- words of pity and endearment console it, and 
return it to earth again with a coin, possibly his last, 
in its dirty httle hand. After which Master Franz 
would stalk on placidly, puffing his pipe, as though 
he had consistently blown up an emperor instead of 
comforted a child. 

He loved his art and talked of it grandly. His 
scorn of what he deemed false was so fine, his denun- 
ciations so withering — it was an irresistible torrent 
of gutturals and tobacco smoke, only to be compared 
with the eloquence with which he exalted what he 
approved. He was forever discovering smeary old 
paintings which were destined to shake Michael 
Angelo’s reputation, and we never took a day in the 
Campagna or an excursion to Albano, that we did not 
find broken-nosed marbles which were superior to 
anything Canova had ever done — yes, or anything 
in the Capitol or the Vatican ! 

We had a studio in common in an old palace not 
far from the church of Trinita del Monte. It was a 
cold, cheerless barrack of a place, requiring an 
immense amount of drapery and rugs to make it 
habitable. But it was cheap, and that was its recom- 
mendation, for our allowances from home were 
limited and our earnings were meagre, not to say 
mythical. I did not pretend to do more than study, 
sketching and copying just to catch the trick of a 
color or a clever bit of modeling ; while as for Franz, 
although he was constantly having the most marvel- 


THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO. 


207 


ous conceptions of subjects for what was to be his 
masterpiece, he seldom got as far as setting his 
palette. He would sometimes sketch out an idea on 
the wall with a piece of charcoal, but mostly he 
painted his pictures in the air, the broad effects done 
with sweeps of his hand, and the high hghts touched 
in with daubs of his thumb. After which efforts he 
would seat himself on the edge of the table, one fist 
holding his big pipe and the other waving aloft a 
huge tankard of beer, and triumphantly thunder 
forth his favorite song, HuiTah ! der Eisenbraut ! 
Hurrah ! the last breath firing the foam from off 
the mug, which the next instant was capsized over 
his capacious mouth. 

At the same time these aerial pictures vrere as real 
to him as though he had put them on canvas. Like 
many Germans, liis mind was of a dreamy, metaphys- 
ical cast, with extraordinary imaginative power. 
Scenes and figures once impressed upon his memory 
were retained so vividly as to enable him to repro- 
duce their shghtest details for weeks and months 
afterward. It was this peculiar faculty of his which, 
being unduly developed, led to the strange occur- 
rences which I am about to relate. 

It may well be supposed that, under the circum- 
stances, a servant was rather a supeiHuous appendage 
to our studio j nevertheless we had one. A very 
peculiar fellow, too, was this retainer of ours, and 
he came into oixr possession in a very peculiar way. 
Beppo — his name was Beppo — ^belonged to a low 
order of Italians, who, in the days of popish rule, 


208 


THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO. 


had nothing to do but eat, sleep, and rear their chil- 
dren the best way they could, the priests managing 
all else in their hves. Ignorant and superstitious, 
they were httle better than wild animals. Beautiful 
yet fierce, quick to love and quick to hate, these 
natives were as ready with their knives as a cat with 
its claws. It was this latter charaeteristic which 
brought about Beppo^s capture and domestication in 
our studio. Ritter was stroUing alone somewhere 
near the quay of the Ripetta late one moonlight 
night, placidly smoking his pipe and indulging in 
artistic reverie, wholly obhvious of the place and the 
hour, when he suddenly eame upon two men attack- 
ing a third, who, with his back against a wall, was 
defending himselt as well as he could. Without 
stopping to make inquiries. Master Franz dashed into 
the fray, knocked one of the assailants down and 
put the other to flight. But not before the third 
man had sunk to the ground, with two ugly knife 
wounds in his body. This was Beppo. When Ritter 
stooped over him to examine his wounds, Beppo eyed 
him askance and tried to raise his knife. Ritter 
quietly took the weapon from him and threw it 
away. Then, as he found the man growing weak 
from loss of blood, he picked him up in his strong 
arms and carried him to a street where he could get 
a vehicle, and brought him direetly to our rooms. 
Anybody else, of course, would have turned the fel- 
low over to the police. But when I pointed this out 
to Ritter and suggested that we were trying to run a 
studio and not an hospital, he rumpled up his hair 


THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO. 


209 


and glared at me, and swore by all his German 
ancestors that I was the most unreasonable man he 
ever saw. Had I not, no more than ten days ago, 
brought a dog up to the studio, with a broken leg ! 
And, G-ottes Thron ! was not his man as good as my 
dog! I doubted it. Nevertheless, Franz went on 
nursing his man as tenderly as though he had been 
his own brother, until he finally got him upon his 
feet once more. 

It was rather interesting to observe the conduct of 
this neglected human animal undergoing the novel 
experience of kindness. At first he watched every 
movement of Ritter’s with a vigilant, suspicious 
glance which seemed apprehensive of poison or the 
stiletto. Then, as he began to understand that this 
big man, with his firm yet gentle touch, was unweari- 
edly ministering to his comfort and his cure, his 
bright black eyes would foUow Ritter about with a 
bewildered, inquiring gaze. Finally, one day, I think 
the meaning of it aU must have suddenly come to 
him ; for entering the room where he lay, on my way 
into the studio, Beppo poked his head up out of the 
blankets to look at me, and I am quite sure he had 
been crying. After all, he was not much more than 
a boy. At any rate, after that his eyes lost their 
restlessness and grew soft and submissive. When 
he became well enough to walk, he would watch us 
at work, and was quick to see what he could do to 
relieve us of studio drudgery. In fact, I must con- 
fess that in his dumb, submissive way he showed 
himself very grateful to Ritter, as grateful as my dog 
14 


210 


THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO. 


was to me. When he became entirely well, Beppo 
disappeared, which seeming ingratitude I did not fail 
to comment on for Franz’s benefit j but he minded it 
no more than a puff of smoke. When, however, at 
the end of a week the Italian turned up again, one 
would have supposed from Ritter’s triumphant eulo- 
gium that he was a perfect marvel of virtue. Then 
Beppo disappeared and reappeared at varying inter- 
vals, until he finally remained with us altogether as 
a studio vassal, taking lessons in painting, for which 
he showed considerable talent, and acting as a house- 
hold serv^ant. Wlioever or whatever he was, he cer- 
tainly displayed a profound knowledge of all the 
knavery going on in Rome, while his ingenuous 
ignorance of the ordinary standards of morality was 
really quite starthng. 

Well, Beppo had been with us about a year when 
Ritter began his famous painting of the Assassina- 
tion of Francesco Cenci. This was a subject wliich 
had fascinated my comrade ever since our arrival in 
Rome. He would go and stand in front of Guido’s 
picture of Beatrice in the Palazzo Barberini, and 
with a mighty sigh apostrophize it in his queer Ger- 
man way: “Ach, Liebchen,” he would say, ^^poor 
lost spirit! WTiat angel land hadst thou drifted 
from, and whither wert thou going, when thou wast 
trapped into life in this world by that devil’s head of 
a Cenci? What didst thou in that heR-world of 
Rome, with its Cencis and its Pope Clements? 
Vampyre und Lindenwiirm ! ” — and here would fol- 
low an explosion of expletives in awful-sounding 


THE MYSTEEY OF A STUDIO. 


211 


German. Or sometimes he would stop in front of 
the sin-begrimed palace of the Ceneis, and, gazing 
up at its black windows, would maunder on in his 
sentimental way about the innocent flower, ‘‘der 
Unschuldblume,” which blossomed from its dark cor- 
ruption. He would fancy that he saw the beautiful, 
pale young face, with its halo of disheveled sunny 
hair, flitting through the gloom within ; or saw her 
wild, sad eyes, Die Augen sanft und wilde,^^ gazing 
appealingly at him from the barred casements. And 
he would wander on, quoting a verse from Heine^s 
Loreley : “ Ich weiss nieht ” — I have forgotten it aU 
except the meaning, which was that this tale of long 
ago weighed heavily on his spirits. 

I did not encourage Franz in his sentimental toy- 
ing with this uncomfortable bit of Italian history • 
not that I feared his brooding over it, but because 
it was the fashion of aU of us art students in Rome 
to combat any idea advanced by any one. In fact, 
I did not realize the strength of the impression made 
by Beatrice's face upon the artistic, sympathetic 
nature of my friend until long afterv^ard. When 
Guido’s portrait was discussed by our httle coterie 
of painters, the discussion nearly always pivoted 
upon its technical merits ; although, occasionally, an 
argument would arise over the well-known story, 
which, being attacked as a fraud by skeptics, would 
be warmly defended by believers like Ritter. 

It was on one of these occasions of clashing opinion, 
one night when much tobacco was being smoked and 
beer drunk over the argument, which, as usual, had 


212 


THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO. 


extended and ramified through every sort of artistic 
vagary, that Ritter, pounding the table with his glass, 
announced in his usual magnificent way that we were 
all a pack of lunatics. Was not Guido Reni an 
artist f Did he not see with his own eyes the face of 
that poor, lonely child borne to her death above the 
sweating, struggling mob of pope’s devils and hell 
cats ? Remember it ? Dear God ! How could he 
ever forget it ! Not paint it 1 He could not help but 
paint it ! Why, he, Franz Ritter, himself, could go 
home now and, without looking at the picture, could 
paint it with the same meaning that Guido had put 
in it. 

This declaration was very naturally received with 
a derisive shout and suggestions that he had better 
run quickly and set about it. 

“ You think I cannot ? ” said Franz, glaring at them. 

Very well, I will show you ! ” 

With that he flung his beer glass across the room, 
where it smashed against the opposite wall, and strode 
out of the door. 

A silence ensued on Ritter’s dramatic departure. I 
do not know why, for we were used to such gusty 
scenes, and were an irrepressible, irreverent lot at the 
best. Perhaps we had passed the height of our 
hilarity, and the murder of a father and the behead- 
ing of the rest of the family was not a subject calcu- 
lated to keep up a spirit of cheerfulness. At any 
rate, the party soon broke up. As for me, I returned 
to that empty old rat-hole of a palace where we had 
our lodging as well as our' studio, and went to bed 


THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO. 


213 


and dreamed of cotomitting every crime known to 
Rome. 

When I arose in the morning, to my surprise I 
found Franz at work in the studio. He had a new 
canvas on his easel, and on this was blocked in the 
head of Beatrice Cenci. He was still in the queer 
mood of last night, and though, judging from what 
he had already accomplished, he must have been at 
work since dawn, he refused to stop even for break- 
fast. I made Beppo prepare him some coffee and 
then, finding that I could not persuade him to join 
me in my plans for the day, I left him. 

When I returned late in the afternoon I found Rit- 
ter still at his easel. He had laid aside his brushes, 
and with his hands clasped behind his unkempt yel- 
low head and his pipe in his mouth, he was leaning 
back gazing at his picture. And what a picture that 
was ! I stared at it in astonishment. Unlike the 
original, it was done in a sketchy way, which added 
to its strength. While as for its power to excite 
those troubled emotions in the beholder, I thought 
then, and still think, it more marvelous than the 
original. 

Great Scott ! Franz,” I burst out, slapping him 
enthusiastically on the back, “that is capital! 
immense ! By the beard of the emperor ! I had no 
idea that you were such a genius. I wonder what 
the fellows will say to that when they see it,” and 
much more to the same purpose. 

But Ritter, contrary to his habit, was entirely 
unresponsive to my ardor. He waited silently until 


214 


THE MYSTEEY OF A STUDIO. 


my enthusiasm had dwindled out for lack of sym- 
pathy, and then calmly announced that he did not 
intend to show the picture to the fellows, or any one 
else. I instantly rebelled at being defrauded of such 
a triumph, but Franz took the matter so seriously 
as to make me promise that I would not even speak 
of it outside the studio. So the sketch was tui-ned 
with its face to the waU. 

From that day I noticed a change in my friend. 
He began to lose his tremendous appetite and went 
off by himself on solitary excursions, and when I in- 
sisted on accompanying him, he was moody and pre- 
occupied. When, in the freedom of our student life, 
I taxed liim with this change, he parried my ques- 
tions by general denials or a forced resumption of 
something of his old careless manner. But these 
manoeuvres, so far from dispelling my doubts, only 
heightened my curiosity and made me more assidu- 
ous in plying him with questions. The fact was, I 
suspected him of being in love j and naturally enough 
too, for I knew of nothing else that could produce 
these queer symptoms. Finally one day, after I had 
charged him with this, and was painting his inam- 
orata in various colors and teasing him with specu- 
lations as to whether she was the daughter of the 
cobbler over the way or one of the models who fre- 
quented the corner of the Via Sistina and Via Capo 
le Case, he suddenly burst out upon me in something 
of his old style. 

My poor Claude,” he exclaimed, your ears grow 
longer every day. Soon they will put panniers on 


THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO. 


215 


your back and trot you in the Campagna. Thou- 
sand devils ! A man cannot be quiet and think a 
little, without every donkey braying out, ^ Ach Gott ! 
he is in love.' Simpleton ! If you must know the 
reason why I no longer play the fool with your beer- 
drinking, guitar-twiddling, empty-headed spoilers of 
good canvas yonder, it is that I have been working 
out in my brain the subject for a picture. Is that 
such a wonderful thing that it must set every goose 
tongue in Rome clacking at me f " 

Now this explanation, that he was in a creative 
fever, had never occurred to me; but it was so 
natural that I accepted it at once. 

Only," I exclaimed, why, in the name of your 
genius-inspiring, sauerkraut-eating, double-barreled- 
adjective-making Vaterland, didn’t you say so in the 
first place?" 

Contrary to our custom, this mocking reply did not 
end in a scuffle or a set-to with maul-sticks. Franz 
merely said in a tame way, Because, my dear, I had 
not yet decided upon painting this picture. But now 
I think I shall." Here he took a long puU at his pipe, 
and fixing his eyes dreamily on vacancy, he slowly 
puffed the smoke from his hps and repeated, Now 
I think I shall." 

“ And may I ask," I said, what this subject is that 
your mighty brain has been wresthng with so long ? " 
Did I say that I had been wrestling with it ? " he 
replied, looking at me curiously. “ No ? Well, but 
I have. For, do you see, it is not what you would 
call a cheerful subject, and I confess to you, Claude, 


216 


THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO. 


that there are times when I do not altogether fancy 
it. But I shall paint it. Gottes Thron! I must 
paint it ! ” 

And he got up from his seat and paced up and 
down the room in a disordered way. 

‘‘ But/’ I said, “ that is not telling me what the sub- 
ject is.” 

The subject ? ” replied Ritter, stopping suddenly. 
‘^No ! Well, then, this is what it is, the Assassina- 
tion of Francesco Cenci. Here is the bed,” he con- 
tinued, pointing with his finger instead of his usual 
method of painting on the air with his thumb — here 
is the bed, mth four posts and a canopy — ^large, 
sombre — of carved oak and dark crimson silk ; and 
in it, in the shadow, hes the old man, asleep under 
the influence of an opiate. One arm is thrown back 
over his head, the other is extended across the bed. 
His scanty gray hairs are scattered on the pillow ; 
his were-woK face is undisturbed, so that the marks 
which ungoverned lust for crime has put upon it 
pucker in withered folds about his closed eyes and 
harden into brutal hues around his sensuous hps. 
Abscheulicher ! And there,” continued Ritter, wav- 
ing his hand with rather starthng effect, ‘^stands 
his daughter, Beatrice. Do you see her ? ” 

He spoke as though he saw her himself so plainly 
that it gave me an unpleasant sensation. 

“ She is standing,” he continued, here, before the 
bed, near the foot, pointing out their victim to the 
assassins Olympio and Marzio, who are dimly seen 
in the shadow of a half -open door in the left fore- 


THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO. 


217 


ground. Her right hand hears aloft a silver lamp, 
the hght from which brings out the aged sleepeFs 
face, a bit of oak carving here and there, a touch of 
crimson drapery, her own wan features and white 
robe. With the other hand she points to the sleeping 
criminal, her father. Her child face, so delicately 
moulded, white, set in her curly golden hair, is turned 
toward the door. Her big eyes, swollen and lustre- 
less with weeping, no longer filled with the mad loath- 
ing of herself and horror of him, but serene now 
with a strange serenity. Her fate has set her above 
humanity. Calmly she points the way to her aveng- 
ers, who stealthily approach, almost mdistinguishable 
in the shadows. They faltered at flrst,’^ continued 
Franz, after a pause, ‘^they faltered at first, those old 
servants of her house, but they could not help but do 
her bidding. They drove a nad into his false, black 
brain ! They could not help but do it. Dear God ! 
had she looked at me so, I would have done it myseK.’^ 

It is a good thing for you, then, that you were 
not around just at that time,’^ I said. “ As for the 
picture, I donT like it. Those old popish days had 
the dry-rot, and were as full of crime as a bad nut is 
of magots. Even talking about them leaves a nasty 
taste in my mouth. Bah ! Let us go and have 
some beer.” 

Wait,” said Franz, “ I want you to tell me that 
you will not say anything of this to any one.” 

■^It strikes me that there is a good deal of secrecy 
about your paintings lately,” I rephed carelessly. 

However, I will promise.” 


218 


THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO. 


For the truth was, I thought that, as usual, the 
whole idea would evaporate before he got as far as 
stretching the canvas. To be sure, he showed un- 
usual earnestness, but I credited this to the emotional 
character of his artistic nature, aided to a great ex- 
tent by his brooding over the wrongs of this beauti- 
ful girl. He was ever a fiery partisan of the weak 
and oppressed. 

But I was mistaken in my judgment. The next 
day he went away by himself, and I saw nothing of 
him untn late ia the afternoon. I was sittiug in a 
little wine-shop near the Fontana di Trevi, a resort 
of artists, smoking and chatting with some com- 
rades, when Ritter came in. He was greeted with a 
shout, for his company was always welcome, and 
while I filled his glass he was plied with questions 
and comments in regard to his recent seclusive hab- 
its. But he did not respond, and after sitting silently 
for awhile he beckoned to me and got up and went 
out. When I joined him outside he said : 

Claude, mein heber, you must let me have some 
money. I have given aU mine to that greedy, gold- 
grasping feUow who has charge of the Cenci palace. 
I have set up my easel there, and am going to begin 
my picture to-morrow. I must have something for 
the model.” 

But,” I objected, “ what is the reason that you 
cannot paint this precious picture in your own 
studio ! ” 

“Well,” he replied, “I heard that there was some 
sixteenth-centmy furniture in one of the rooms of 


THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO. 


219 


the Palazzo Cenci, and I find that it is just suited to 
my purpose. In fact,” he added, with some hesitation, 
'' strangely enough, a bed is there such as I described 
to you. Odd! was it not?” and he looked at me 
cmdously. '' Then,” he exclaimed, ‘4t is just as well 
that I should paint the picture in those historical 
rooms. It is just the atmosphere for it.” 

‘^The devil fiy away with the Cencis and then- 
atmosphere ! ” I said irritably. I don't hke all this.” 

‘‘ If you have not got the money to lend me,” said 
Franz gently, “of course, I ” 

But I interrupted him, exclaiming warmly, “ You 
know me too well to talk like that ! The money is 
yours as much as it is mine.” And I handed him aU 
that I had. “ Will you find it necessary to sleep in 
your Cenci atmosphere, or may I expect you home 
at night?” I added sarcastically. 

Franz rephed mildly that he would sleep at home. 
In fact, I found him there when I returned that night, 
although he might as well have stayed away for all 
the (;ompanionship he afforded. 

He disappeared again the next day, but I heard 
from Beppo that he had rigged up a room in the 
Cenci palace with his sixteenth-century furniture, 
and that he had secured a model for Francesco — that 
is, for the figure of the old man ; Beatrice he was 
going to paint from his knowledge of the face and 
figure. 

Beppo was washing some of my brushes when he 
told me of what had occurred, and I could see that 
he disapproved of Ritter's proceedings by the way he 


220 


THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO. 


broke down some of my pet bristles. As I expressed 
no opinion, except that be had better be more care- 
ful of my tools, he finally, after a silence, extended 
his hands in what would have been a very dramatic 
attitude but for the fact that in one hand he held a 
bunch of wet brushes and in the other a chunk of 
yellow soap, and exclaimed in his native tongue : 

Why does Meinherr Ritter take his easel away 
from here, Meestare Clifford ? Here there is plenty 
of room and good fight. It is a grand place 
for pictures. Why does he not do his painting 
here f 

In explanation of Beppo’s methods of speaking, it 
may be as weU to state that, although both Franz 
and I understood Italian fairly well, Ritter, in his 
autocratic way, had decided shortly after Beppo’s 
iustallation in our studio that he must speak noth- 
ing but German. Whereupon I naturally declared 
that ff he ever spoke anythiug but English I would 
throw him out of the window. After a week of 
active rivalry in educating him, we found that Bep- 
po’s brain was unequal to the emergency. So we 
finally agreed to a compromise whereby he was 
allowed to speak his owru language, only giving each 
of us our national titles of Mister” and “Mein- 
herr.” On occasions, however, when he specially 
wished to win the attention or favor of Franz or 
myself, Beppo would air his few words of English or 
German, as the case might be. So, now, when I did 
not answer him immediately, he said with painful 
hesitancy : 


THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO. 


221 


^‘What ees the mattare here, Meestare Clifford, 
sare, eef a you please ? 

“ There is nothing the matter here,” I said. “ Is 
there anything the matter there ? ” And I indicated 
the Piazza deUe Scnole with a nod. 

Dio mio, signore ! ” he answered, much relieved 
at my replying in Italian ; that is no place for a 
Christian to sit alone, that Palazzo Cenci.” 

‘‘ He is a heretic,” I said j “ the ghosts won’t touch 
him.” 

Ah, Meestare Clifford,” exclaimed Beppo, cross- 
ing himself with the soap, “ you are a foreigner, you 
do not know about these things, neither you nor 
Meinherr Ritter. But the good fathers will teU you ; 
they know that it is not weU for a man to talk so, 
nor to tempt the Evil One by being alone in that 
place. Meestare Clifford,” and Beppo put down his 
brushes and soap and approached me with clasped 
hands and another conciliatory attempt at English, 
Meestare Clifford, lo no hke a Meinherr Ritter go 
alone ; eef a you please, sare, go too.” 

Go to ! Thou saucy varlet ! ” I exclaimed theat- 
rically. “ Dost teU me to ‘go to ’ ? ” 

“ ExceUenza,” said Beppo. 

“ I say, Beppo, if you are so unhappy about your 
dear master, why don’t you go and stay with him 
yourself? You are not afraid. You are a good 
Catholic and a fighter.” 

“ Si, signore,” protested Beppo, “ I wUl fight — ^yes, 
per Bacco ! I wdl fight any day for his excellency. 
I will fight men ! But ” 


THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO. 


222 

Here Beppo shrugged his shoulders, inclined his 
head to one side and extended his hands to indicate 
that when it came to ghosts he was not to be rehed 
upon. 

In fact, Beppo’s distraction between his desire to 
keep near his master in what he believed to be his 
perilous situation, and his own superstitious fear of 
the Cenci ghosts, would have been amusing, if I had 
been in the humor to be amused. But I was not. 
Whether it was loneliness — for I saw very little of 
my friend now — or Ritter’s unnatural moodiness 
when I did see him, or for what cause, I cannot say, 
but I certainly was depressed. I found myseK tak- 
ing a sort of rehef in talking to Beppo about his 
master. On his return from his frequent visits to 
the Palazzo Cenci, I would ask as anxiously about 
the progress of the picture as though Ritter were 
reaUy in some sort of peril. Whereupon Beppo 
never faded, in one way or another, to give my 
thoughts some new bit of superstitious devdtry to 
feed on. For instance, after I had been to the Cenci 
studio myself, I asked him if he knew anything of 
the man Ritter was using as a model, for although I 
did not say so, I secretly thought him as villainous 
a looking scoundrel as I had ever seen. 

^‘Ah, si, signore,” said Beppo, readdy, “I know 
him very wed. He is a very bad man, that.” 

Worse than you!” I said. 

^‘Ah, si, signore, Meestare Clifford,” protested 
Beppo, he is a very much worse man than I am. 
Yes, sare. He is just the same as Francesco Cenci.” 


THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO. 


223 


“I suppose the next thing you will teU me he 
belongs to the family,” I said sarcastically. 

Si, signore,” said Beppo, calmly. 

Oh, come now, Beppo,” I said, what is the use 
of lying to me like that ! I happen to know that 
the only one of the family left is Count Cenci-Bolog- 
netti.” 

‘‘Ah, signore,” answered Beppo, shrugging his 
shoulders, “I do not mean that he is of the family 
that way. Francesco Cenci was a very bad man. 
He had many children that nobody knows or cares 
about, except the priests. The priests can tell you, 
they know. But these descendants on the wrong 
side, they have all gone quickly. This man Girola- 
mo’s father died so ” — ^here Beppo made a significant 
movement about his neck — “ and Girolamo, who, 
they say, is the last one, laughs and declares he will 
go the same road. Per Dio, he is hkely to keep his 
word ! You see, signore, he is proud of his illustri- 
ous descent. I have heard the pidests say that he 
looks hke the pictures of Francesco Cenci. It was I 
who told Meinherr Ritter of that,” continued Beppo, 
gravely ; “ and he bade me go get him. And when 
he saw him he said, ‘ Good ! It is the devil himself ! ’ 
Not that II Cenci, for that is what they caU him, sig- 
nore, is a model, you understand ; though he will take 
pay for it, he is not a model. It is only because he 
will be painted as Francesco. He heard that Mein- 
herr Ritter was going to paint this picture and he 
made me — that is, he asked me to talk to his excel- 
lency about him. AlS I tell you, this illustrious ances- 


224 


THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO. 


tor is Ms pride, and he does every wickedness he can 
to make people say, ‘ It is Francesco himself ! ^ Per 
Bacco ! That pleases him. He has killed men. Si, 
signore, Meestare Clifford,^^ continued Beppo, excit- 
edly, “I tell you, who know. But — a malediction 
on my tongue ! ” — and here Beppo lowered Ms voice 
and with Ms finger on Ms lips glanced around appre- 
hensively — tMs is not a thing to be talked about. 
He belongs to those who hear everything — and the 
Mghts are dark. It is better not to talk, signore 
mio, credete mi.” 

Now Beppo, like many of Ms countrymen, was such 
a clever actor that I could not teU whether he was 
romancing or not. I beheved he was teUing the 
truth, however, because when I referred to the mat- 
ter again he professed not to understand my Italian. 
Being forced out of tliis position, he unblushingly 
denied that he had ever opened his mouth about 
RitteFs model, and, in fact, declared that he had 
never seen Girolamo before the day he appeared in 
RitteFs studio. This information he dehvered with 
a mien wMch would have enabled him to pose for a 
picture of innocence. However, the more I thought 
of it the more I was convinced that our retainer had 
himself belonged to a band of cut-throats, very pos- 
sibly belonged to one still, and was using bis studio 
duties as a blind. Very evidently he was in the 
power of tMs feUow Girolamo, their leader, like as 
not. 

Of course, I told Franz what I had heard about 
this precious model of Ms. To my surprise he rephed, 


THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO. 


225 


moodily, “ Donner Wetter, do I not know all that ! 
It is the sonl of that old heU-honnd, Cenei, come to 
life again in this scoundrePs body. Sooner or later 
he will come to the same end, and that will be 
weU.^^ 

Ritter had been at work in the Piazza delle Seuole 
now for two weeks, and every day he grew gloomier 
and more abstracted. I never saw a man so changed 
in that space of time. He spent all of his daylight in 
the Palazzo Cenci, and at night he sat brooding in 
his room. He isolated himself almost entirely from 
his former companions, and went nowhere and saw 
no one. Very early in the beginning of his under- 
taking he had given me to understand that he pre- 
ferred to be alone at his painting, and as my only 
reason for entering the lowering old sin-stained pile 
was to cheer him with my company, I did not wait 
for a second hint to stay away. More than once in 
the evening, after he had come from his work, I 
would hear his voice as though talking to some one 
in his room, and on going in find him alone. On 
these occasions, when I would ask him what he meant 
by maundering on to himself in that uncanny sort of 
way, he would try to laugh it off or else get up and 
walk out. He was very restless at night and would 
be up at aU hours, sometimes coming into my room 
and sitting there till morning. It was not pleasant 
for me, this nocturnal companionship, but I encour- 
aged him in it, thinking it was better for him. I 
finally induced him to bring his bed into my room. 
That night, when I lay as though asleep, I heard him 
15 


226 


THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO. 


cry out, “ Acli Gott ! Why do you follow me so ? 
^\^y do you never give me any peace 1 ” This woful 
appeal to some invisible presence, breaking the silence 
of the darkness, fairly stirred my hair. I called out 
to know if any one was in the room, but he answered 
that it was nothing j he was dreaming, that was 
all. 

Naturally, as I say, aU this made me uneasy, and 
I did not fail to remonstrate with Franz on his im- 
becile conduct. But aU I could extort from him was 
that he was deeply interested in his picture, and was 
working very hard over it, and no doubt the mental 
strain and unusual confinement were telling on his 
nerves. I urged him to relinquish his work, at least 
for a time, but this he would not hsten to, declaring 
that he would finish the picture very soon, and would 
then go to the country and rest. 

But Ritter’s great picture of the Assassination of 
Francesco Cenci — and it was truly a great picture — 
was destined never to be finished. I am not super- 
stitious — in fact, I have always been intolerant of such 
notions in others — ^but in this matter I fully confess 
my behef that the shadows of those old crimes still 
bhght the lives of men who willfully turn their backs 
on God’s pure air and sunshine to gratify a morbid 
taste for exploring their dark secrets. The beauty 
and the sad, romantic history of Beatrice Cenci was 
in very truth as the song of the Loreley for Franz 
Ritter, and it drew him into those shadows. 


THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO. 


227 


II. 

I was sitting in my stndio one afternoon painting 
in a halt-hearted way. Everything was intensely 
stiU. Suddenly I heard footsteps running along the 
passage to my room. I was so nervous that I started 
violently enough to slop the oil out of my palette 
cups. Angry with myself and the intruder, I wheeled 
around just as the door was flung violently open. 
There stood Beppo, his ohve complexion of an ashen 
color, the perspiration on his forehead and his eyes 
staring, while he panted like a hunted man. My 
heart sank at the sight of him. Nevertheless, to 
keep my courage up, I said roughly : What do you 
mean by coming in here like that ? Are you drimk 
or crazy 

‘‘Signore, per lamor di Dio," he cried, “come 
quickly. II Cenci has been killed in .Herr Ritter’s 
studio." 

“What!" I exclaimed; “what are you talking 
about ? WTio has been killed ? " 

“ n Cenci, signore, Girolamo, the model, and they 
have arrested Herr Ritter for the murder and are 
taking him to prison ! Madonna mia I I knew that 
trouble would come to him in that accursed place," 
he continued, wringing his hands and gesticulating 
despairingly. 

Without waiting to listen further, I grabbed my 
hat and ran out of the house in the direction of the 
Piazza delle Scuole. As I ran I could hear Beppo 


228 


THE MYSTEEY OF A STUDIO. 


at my heels. Arrived in front of the Palazzo Cenci, 
I saw a httle knot of people standing at one of the 
gates. I made for the crowd, and forcing my way 
throngh, I found myself confronting a gendarme 
guarding the entrance. I tried to pass him, but he 
stopped me. 

* Signore Ritter is a friend of mine,” I said. I 
must see him.” 

“You cannot go in,” replied the gendarme. 

“ But I must see him,” I said, still struggling to 
enter. 

The gendarme pushed me aside and said, “ If you 
do not get back I will arrest you.” 

He was a pompous httle feUow, and I could have 
knocked him down with ease and satisfaction. But 
while I was thinking whether I had better try it or 
not, I felt a puh at my sleeve. Turning, I saw Beppo 
at my elbow, biit so muffled up in his hat and cloak 
that I should not have recognized him if he had not 
spoken. 

“ Come with me, signore, quick,” he said ; “ I have 
found out where they have taken him.” 

Not knowing what else to do, I turned and made 
my way out of the crowd as fast as I had gone in, 
and all the time Beppo, with his hat drawn stiU 
further over his eyes, was at my elbow talking rapidly 
in a low voice. 

“ Do not speak to me, signore, or let any one see 
that you know me. FoUow me so as not to attract 
attention.” 

« But— — ” I said, stopping short. 


THE MYSTEEY OF A STUDIO, 


229 


Per Pio, signore/^ interrupted Beppo, in a voice 
that was new to me, do as I tell you. This is no 
time to talk.” 

Whereupon he left me and strolled oif leisurely as 
one who had satisfied his curiosity in the crowd. He 
then turned down a byway, while I, scarcely know- 
ing whether I was awake or dreaming, obediently 
followed him. 

After winding through a maze of streets, some 
filled with slouching, dl-favored inhabitants, but most 
of them empty, with blind walls on either side — 
streets which were altogether strange to me — I at 
last saw Beppo stop before an old fountain in a small 
square and with studied indolence help himself to 
some water. Then, after glancing around sharply 
in every dmection, he made a signal for me to join 
him. Whereupon I stopped at the fountain also and 
drank. As I did so Beppo said in a low voice : 

“ The prison to which they have taken him is in 
the next street, signore ; I can go no further. Learn 
what you can. I will be at the studio at seven.” 

With that he went off in a different direction. 

I had no difficulty in finding the prison, but I was 
positively refused admittance to the prisoner without 
a pass from the police magistrate. Argument and 
entreaty were unavailing. In fact the police captain, 
as they called him, was in half a mind to arrest me 
as a possible accomplice. Artists were not of much 
consequence in Rome, and I doubted my abihty to 
succeed any better with the magistrate. In this 
emergency I suddenly thought of an old acquaintance 


230 


THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO. 


who was attached to oiir legation, and who surely 
would be able to procure the necessary instructions 
for me. Taking a cab, I sought him out, and telhng 
him what httle I knew, we went together to the 
magistrate, who, under such patronage, very readily 
gave me the order. But all this took time, and it 
was nearly dark when I again entered the prison, 
and showing my paper was taken to Ritter’s cell. 

It was a small room with stone floor and walls, 
and a narrow window high up and heavily grated. 
When my eye got accustomed to the obscurity I saw 
my friend sitting on a small wooden bed, his head 
resting on his hands, his elbows on his knees. I 
could scarcely realize that it was my warm-hearted 
Franz there, in that cold, gloomy tank of a place, 
alone, and a prisoner charged with murder. It was 
hke a nightmare. Going quickly to his side, for he 
had not moved at the clanking of the door, I laid 
my hand upon his shoulder and said : 

Franz, old man, what does all this mean ? ” 

He raised his head and looked at me. 

‘^Ach, mein lieber Claude,” he said, ^Gs it thou? 
I expected you sooner.” 

I quickly told him how I had been delayed. And 
now,” I said hurriedly, for I had been warned by the 
pohce captain, and not too graciously, that we could 
have but a few minutes together, “ tell me what has 
happened. Beppo says that Girolamo has been 
killed. Is it so ? ” 

Ritter had raised his head and was sitting in a 
dejected attitude. At my question he pressed his 


THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO. 


231 


hands to his temples and exclaimed: ^^Ach Gott! 
Yes. It is awful. Do not let us talk about it.” 

‘^But we must, Franz,” I said. must know 
about it, else how can I help you ? How did it hap- 
pen ? Who killed him ? ” 

Never for an instant had a doubt of the nature of 
Franzes connection with the tragedy entered my 
mind. It was some unfortunate comphcation which 
had involved him in suspicion, but which would 
admit of easy explanation. I was only afraid that 
so much delay in pro\dng his innocence might result 
in his having to pass the night in that place. 

TeU me,” I repeated impatiently, as Franz did 
not reply, who killed him, do you know ? ” 

Still he sat there in the deepening gloom, with his 
head between his hands, without answering me. 
Then, as the expected outburst of excited explana- 
tion, carrying aU these horrid mysteries before it, 
failed to come, a cold, sickening feehng gradually 
crept into my heart. 

Franz,” I whispered, and I knew that my voice 
had changed as I glanced backward at the jailer 
near the door, ^^who — how did it happen? For 
Heaven^s sake, man,” I added desperately, say some- 
thing ! ” 

He was lying on the bed,” said Franz, in a low 
voice, without lifting his eyes, ‘‘one arm thrown 
back over his head, the other extended; his gray 
hairs were scattered on the piUow ; his face, marked 
with crime wrinkles, was undisturbed as if he slept ; 
aU as I was painting it — no, no, not all ! The con- 


232 


THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO. 


spirators were gone from the door. She was gone. 
And the great nail had been driven through his eye 
into his brain, and he was dead ! The hammer lay 
beside him. There was blood on the pillow — ^blood ” 
— and Franz drew a long, shuddering breath through 
his teeth, and whispered, It was an awful thing to 
look upon ! ” 

My God ! ” I murmured, as I recognized the 
description. And involuntarily I drew back, gazing 
down upon the crouching figure. 

Then Franz suddenly raised his head. 

You think that I did it, my httle Claude ! Maybe 
so, I do not know. She has urged me to it for so 
long.” 

“ She ! who ? ” I said, tremulously, for tears were 
gathering in my eyes in the darkness. 

‘^That poor, pale child, Beatrice,” he answered. 
“ She has never left my side since first I painted her 
lovely face. Always her vdld, sad eyes were fastened 
imploringly on mine. She knew that I, at least, 
understood and sympathized with her unholy sin 
and sorrow. But I did not know why she would 
give me no peace during all the hours, until one day 
this fiend of a Cenci, of whose vileness many have 
told me, lay there to be painted. Then, like a fiash, 
I knew. The vampire soul that had been driven out 
of her accursed fathers body, near 300 years ago, 
was on earth again in the shape of this were-woK, 
and it must die as before. But aU the time I told 
the poor, restless spirit. No ; I could not do it. Dear 
Christ ! I stmggled against it always ! But when I 


THE OTSTERY OF A STUDIO. 


233 


saw tliis morning that it had been done, I thought 
perhaps that she had led me to it while I slept, and 
my heart has grown white with fear ! I may have 
done it, I do not know. But the good God knows 
that if I did, 1 did not mean it.’^ He sighed deeply, 
and then added abruptly, Donner Wetter ! but my 
head feels badly.” At the same time he sank back 
upon the bed. 

Then the jailer, who had stood impatiently at the 
door all this time, peremptorily ordered me to come 
away. What could I do “1 Taking off my overcoat, 
I threw it over Franz — ^lie would need it in that cold 
place — and said, as bravely as I could : 

Franz, dear old friend, you did not do this thing. 
I know that. Cheer up ! I will have you out of 
here before long.” 

And so I left him. I gave the fellow who had 
shown me to the cell what silver I had, and asked 
him to do all that he could for the comfort of the 
prisoner. Not that I beheved it would serve poor 
Ritter. All the hope and energy with which I had 
entered the place had now deseifed me. My brain 
was dazed and sluggish, and my heart was sick. 
Once outside, I leaned my hot head against the cold 
stone wall and gave way to the tears that were chok- 
ing me. 

III. 

Of the days that followed pnor to Ritter’s trial 
there is little to be said. When I returned to our 


234 


THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO. 


studio on that fatal night I found that the lamp had 
been lighted by Beppo, who was there waiting for 
me. He sat in an obscure comer, with his slouch 
hat and cloak muffling his face and figure, and as I 
saw him I hated him for his dark, mysterious appear- 
ance. I hated all these Italians, with their intrigues 
and vendettas ; I hated Rome, with its secrets and 
crimes, and I wished that I had never seen the shores 
of Italy. I answered Beppo^s eager questions shortly 
and sullenly. I had little to teU, and it he knew 
any more than I did he did not betray it. All that 
he told me was that he had not been with Ritter when 
the body of Girolamo was found, but going to the 
studio he had found the place in the possession of 
the pohce. Learning then, from some of the crowd, 
what had happened, he had come to me. This was 
aU. I was not in the humor for discussing the afiiair 
with him, and I let him sec plainly enough that I 
did not care to take him into my confidence. I sim- 
ply told him that Mr. Ritter was in as bad a way as 
a man could be, and that it he knew any plan to 
help him he had better set about it, because I did 
not. Thereupon Beppo arose and, with a pale face 
and lowered eyes, threw his cloak across his shoulder 
and started out of the room. That was the last I 
saw of Beppo for many a troubled day to come. 

As for myself, I did all that I could for my poor 
Franz, which was little enough. Through my friend 
at the legation I was enabled to create a warm sym- 
pathy at the German embassy for their unfortunate 
countryman, although I soon saw that they believed 


THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO. 235 

him guilty. They sent Franz a doctor of his own 
nationality, for he was sick, and they obtained per- 
mission for me to visit him— that was something. 
Weeks of anxious suspense, apprehension, and de- 
spondency dragged by. Nearly every day I was sum- 
moned before the magistrate to answer questions 
concerning Franz’s habits of life prior to the murder. 
And although I came home from these examinations 
worn out and exasperated by what seemed to me the 
irrelevancy, senseless repetition, and weary delay of 
the whole legal process, I could not but feel each 
day that the fatal net was drawn closer about my 
poor friend. During this time, as I say, I was freely 
permitted to see Ritter, although I was secretly 
aware that it was under espionage. In fact, I knew 
that I was being constantly shadowed. The studio 
also was under surveillance, principally, I fancy, 
from a desire to get hold of Beppo, who had disap- 
peared completely. As for Ritter, he remained in 
much the same condition throughout these days as 
when I first saw him in jail. He grew paler and 
thinner each day, but his manner remained the same. 
He seemed dazed, confused, always dumbly striving 
to unravel the past. The hopeless yet patient way 
in which he would receive my passionate protests 
against his submission and inaction under the infa- 
mous charge which had been laid upon him, was 
pitiful. Apparently entirely forgetful of himself, 
his miserable pUght and ultimate peril, of which I 
nevertheless knew him to be fully conscious, his 
only thought was to soothe and comfort me. But 


236 


THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO. 


to that end all that he conld say was, ^‘My httle 
Claude, I do not know 5 I may have done it — I do 
not know.” 

At last came the day of the trial. I have no heart, 
even at this lapse of time, to describe the scene. In 
fact, I retain a very vague recollection of it all. 
The principal memory that I have is of a witness, a 
young doctor, whose appearance and words seem to 
have impressed themselves upon my jnind, just as I 
have heard that one figure or event impresses itself 
on the mind of a man in battle, the rest being dim 
and confused. This doctor gave professional testi- 
mony at great length on the subject of what he 
termed sensory apperception.” He seemed to be 
gi’eatly interested in his topic and talked learnedly 
of the visualizing power in man.” Some possessed 
it stronger than others, he said, and it could be 
developed in a marvelous degree, as in the case of 
chess-players-, who played while blindfolded, authors 
who saw the characters they created walk the streets, 
and so forth. It can be easily understood,” he con- 
tinued, that insanity is sometimes induced by the 
morbid development of the visualizing power. An 
artist painting an imaginary portrait and becoming 
absorbed in his work might, under such conditions, 
see the figure enter into his daily fife, see it walk, 
move, and at length believe in its reahty. When 
the figure had a history, dark and romantic, which 
had appealed previously to the sensitive sympathies 
of the artist, additional force and strength would be 
given to the mania. Furthermore, when such a 


THE MYSTEEY OF A STUDIO. 


237 


morbidly fascinating figure is depicted in the act of 
inciting to a deed of violence, and all of the acces- 
sories to that deed are supplied, even to the victim, 
identical in ahnost every particular with the original, 
it is easily conceivable that at a critical moment the 
diseased brain of the artist might consummate in 
reality what he had begun only in fancy.” 

What more is it necessary for me to say ? Tliis 
was the keynote of the whole trial : that my poor 
Franz was a madman and a murderer. It availed 
nothing that I swore to his bravery and gentleness, 
his manly spirit and generosity 5 that he, who was 
ah goodness and tenderness, and incapable of hurt- 
ing any living creature, would not, could not, sane 
or insane, have done so foul a thing ! The verdict 
was — guilty. 

When I heard that fatal word I went back to our 
desolate studio and, throwing myseh on a lounge, 
buried my head in my arms in despair. How long 
I remained there, prostrated by grief and weariness, I 
do not know. I was aroused at last by hearing some 
one caU my name. Looking up, I saw Beppo. 

‘‘What do you want?” I said, stariug at him 
stupidly. 

“Is it ah over, signore ? ” he asked in his soft, low 
Italian. 

“ Yes,” I rephed, “ it is ah over.” 

“ What whl they do with him ? ” 

“How do I know?” I answered bitterly. “They 
may send him to the guihotine. If not, they whl 
put him in prison for the rest of his life. They had 


238 


THE IVIYSTERY OF A STUDIO. 


better kill liim and be done with it,” and I turned 
my face away. 

There was a long silence. Then Beppo spoke 
again. 

^‘Signore,” he said, “I have sworn an oath to 
Saint Giuseppe that if it came to the worst I would 
save him, and by the help of the Holy Virgin I will. 
Listen to me.” 

Then I turned my head once more and looked up 
at the man in wonder. He was very pale, but his 
manner was cahn and dignihed. It would have been 
almost melodramatic in any one else. 

‘^You must come with me,” he continued, ^‘but no 
one must see us leave here together. Go out and 
get a carriage and wait at the comer of the Via dei 
Condotti. Hold a handkerchief in your hand and 
let it rest by the window. I wUl join you presently.” 

Then, without stopping to answer the questions I 
eagerly began to put to him, he left as sHently as he 
came. Scarcely reahzing or believing in the possi- 
bihty of help coming from such a source, and yet 
feverishly ready to grasp at the slightest chance, I 
was now effectually aroused. The mystery which 
had always surrounded Beppo, and his unexpected 
appearance at this moment, perhaps induced me to 
hope for more from his words than from any ordinary, 
common-sense proposition. Hurriedly arran ging my 
dress, I went out and procured a cab and drove, as 
he had directed, to the corner of the Via dei Con- 
dotti. It seemed so long that I waited there that my 
heart gradually sank and I had difficulty in persuad- 


THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO. 


239 


ing myself that I was not upon a fooTs errand. 
Then at last, and most unexpectedly, the carriage 
door opened and Beppo, muffled as usual, took a seat 
at my side. 

Tell him to drive to the magistrate’s,” he said. 

I gave the order to the coachman and again began 
to question Beppo. But he only answered, ‘‘Wait, 
signore, wait.” 

An-ived at the magistrate’s residence, in accord- 
ance with Beppo’s instructions, I sent in my card, 
with an urgent request for an interview. After a 
httle delay we were shown into a room, where we 
were presently joined by the man whose face I had 
grown to detest. Then Beppo, dropping his cloak, 
stepped forward and said : 

“ Excellenza, I am Griuseppe Tombini.” 

“Ah,” exclaimed the magistrate, starting back 
with a gesture of surprise, “ Giuseppe Tombini ! ” 

“ Si, signore ; and I have come here to give infor- 
mation in regard to the murder of Girolamo Siotto.” 

“Wait,” said the magistrate, and going to the 
door of the room he had left, he spoke to some one 
inside. 

Presently two men appeared, one a gendarme, the 
other a clerk provided with writing materials. 

“ Take down what is said,” ordered the magistrate. 
Then, after a little bustle of preparation, he seated 
himself, and looking at Beppo curiously, signed for 
him to speak. For a minute or two Beppo was 
silent, and then, very pale, but with the same dignity 
which had marked aU of his actions, he began to 


240 


THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO. 


speak. He spoke rapidly, and I had some difficulty 
in following him, hut this is practically what he 
said: 

Your excellency knows that Girolamo Siotto was 
foully murdered in the Palazzo Cenci on the morning 
of the 14th of November. He was found in a room 
that Signore Ritter, the artist, was using as a studio. 
He was serving as a model of Francesco Cenci for 
Signore Ritter, and when discovered was dressed in 
his costume and was lying on the bed as though he 
had been posing. Signore Ritter was arrested and 
found guilty of the mm^der. For the past year, your 
excellency. Signore Ritter has been teacliing me to 
paint pictures, and in return I waited upon him in 
his studio. How that came about does not signify. 
But Signore Ritter was a noble-hearted gentleman, 
and was very good and kind to me. That is why I 
am here now. Perhaps your excellency has heard 
that I have not always painted pictures, and that is 
true. Before I went to hve with Signore Ritter I 
knew Girolamo, or II Cenci, as he was called, well. 
It was I who got his services for my master. Signore 
Ritter having heard of his hkeness to Francesco 
Cenci. When I learned that Girolamo had been 
found dead in the studio, I knew that my master 
had not killed him, although the hand of the good 
God had been laid heavily upon him for his impiety 
in daring to paint such a picture in that unholy 
place, so that he himself is unable to say that he did 
not do it. I knew that it was not in his power to 
do such a thing. And I knew that there were many 


THE MYSTEEY OF A STUDIO. 


241 


men, and women too, who hated II Cenci, and could 
and would kill him if they got the chance. So then, 
loving my master, as I say, I made up my mind to 
go back once more, and live with those with whom I 
had lived before and learn the truth. 

“ At first I was looked upon mth suspicion, but 
when it became known that the pohce wanted me 
and that I was hiding from them, I had no trouble. 
But it was only yesterday that I found out what I 
wanted to know, and that by chance. I would never 
have told,” and here Beppo raised his head somewhat 
defiantly, ‘‘ if my master had not been found guilty ; 
but to save him I will ted.” 

Here he paused for a moment, while every eye was 
fixed upon him, and it seemed to me that I could 
hear my heart beating in the silence. 

^‘The murderer of Girolamo Siotto,” continued 
Beppo distinctly, but in a lower tone, “is a woman, 
and her name is Agata Fiorentini. She killed him 
because II Cenci had betrayed her, and then abused 
and deserted her. She would not have killed him 
perhaps except that he took up with another woman 
and aroused her jealousy. The way she did it was 
this : Girolamo, as every one knows, was proud of 
his ancestor, Francesco Cenci, and ambitious to be 
as wicked. As I have said, it was this pride that 
made him want to act as model for Signore Ritter 
and be painted in the picture of the assassination. 
He talked about the painting a great deal among his 
friends, and would take them to the studio in the 
Palazzo Cenci at night, where, dressed in his costume 
16 


242 


THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO. 


and almost believing that he was Francesco Cenci, lie 
would carouse with them until dayhght. There are 
many secret passages in the Palazzo Cenci, and of 
course Signore Ritter knew nothing of all this. The 
day before the murder was the fete-day of Girolamo’s 
patron saint, and that night he invited his friends to 
a feast in the studio. Agata Fiorentini and the 
woman for whom he had deserted her were among 
the guests. Dear body of Christ, that was a wild 
night ! It was as though Francesco Cenci himself 
had come back from the grave. And all through 
their reveling II Cenci devoted himself to his new 
mistress, just as if he had asked Agata to come only 
that he might enjoy her unhappiness. But though 
she was secretly raving with jealousy, she shovred no 
sign of it, and that made 11 Cenci angry, so that at 
last he openly taunted her with her love, and abused 
her. But still she said nothing, until toward morn- 
ing Girolamo threw himself, half drunk, upon the 
bed, and the rest, one by one, went away and left 
liim there. But when they had all gone, the woman 
Agata came back. She found Girolamo lying on the 
bed just as he was painted in the picture, heavily, 
stupidly sleeping. She had heard the story of the 
painting often enough, and now she uncovered the 
canvas and stood before it for a long time. Then 
she went to the side of the bed and gazed at II Cenci. 
The hammer and nail which figured in the picture 
lay near him on the coverlet. She picked them up 
and leaned over him and whispered : ^ Let mine be 
the hand to finish the work, my beloved. No foreign 


THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO. 


243 


artist can do it half so well.^ With that she kissed 
the nail and drove it into his brain.” 

Beppo ceased. The silence which ensued was only- 
broken by my long-drawn breath. The magistrate 
arose from his chair and began to pace the room j 
at last he said : 

This story that you have told to save your mas- 
ter is very plausible. But it amounts to nothing 
unless you are prepared to prove it.” 

understand that, excellenza, and I ask to be 
confronted with this woman, Agata Fiorentini.” 

But where is she to be found ? ” said the magis- 
trate, stopping short and eying Beppo severely. 

Your excellency,” he rephed, there is an alley 
leading from the Pescheria to the Via Rua, not far 
from the Palazzo Cenci. In it there is a house kept 
by one Antonio BaldeUi, a Jew. The pohce will 
know the place, and here they wdl find the woman I 
spoke of. But, your excellency,” contiuued Beppo, 
holding up his hand to check the magistrate, I im- 
plore y^ou for the love of the Yu’gin to have them 
use caution and secrecy, because, if the woman^s 
friends become suspicious, they will never find her, 
and all will be undone.” 

This was the first time that Beppo’s voice had 
altered from, the quiet though almost defiant tone 
which had characterized his words throughout the 
interview. The magistrate reassured him with a 
gesture, and, sitting down, wrote a few hurried lines, 
which he gave to his clerk, who immediately left the 
room. Then turning to Beppo, he said, ‘‘You wiU 


244 


THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO. 


remain here for the present,” and to me he said, 
Signore, you also will obhge me by remaining.” I 
bowed, and the magistrate, pausing to w^hisper a 
word to the gendarme at the door, withdrew, leaving 
us alone and evidently, from the increased alertness 
of the guard, prisoners. 

I win not dwell upon the emotions which preyed 
upon me during the ensuing hours of waiting. Con- 
fidence and distrust, hope and despair, alternated in 
my heart with the swinging of the pendulum of the 
clock upon the wall. It w^as all so strange, so sud- 
den, so unexpected, this revelation of Beppo’s. And 
while I did not for a moment doubt his story, I was 
tormented by the fear that the police, in whose in- 
telligence and efficiency I had no confidence, would 
prove miserably incompetent for such a delicate piece 
of work, and allow this woman, hidden as she was in 
a thieves’ den, to escape. The chances for poor Rit- 
ter were raised once more from the depths to which 
they had plunged, but by a thread so slender that in 
unskillful or unfriendly hands it seemed almost im- 
possible that it would hold. I paced the room con- 
tinually, glancing every moment at the clock and 
starting at every sound that reached my ear. At 
first I tried to induce Beppo to talk, but my efforts 
were met always by the same reply, “Aspetti, signore, 
aspetti.” More than once I found myself w^onder- 
ing at the man as he stood there leaning against the 
wall, with his arms folded, pale and still, without be- 
traying a sign of impatience or anxiety. And more 
than once my thoughts went back to the time when 


THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO. 


245 


Ritter brought him to om^ studio j when, suspicious 
and untamed' he had wrapped himself in his blanket 
and endured the tortures of Ins wounds, day after 
day, with scarcely the movement of a muscle. Evi- 
dently, gratitude with this man was no idle word. 
How httle I understood him, even then, the end will 
show. 

The time dragged on. Three hours had now 
elapsed since the clerk had left, when suddenly my 
wandering thoughts were throvm back upon their 
immediate surroundings by the stopping of a cari’iage 
in front of the door. There was a moment’s bustle 
at the entrance, and then the magistrate, followed 
by his clerk, once more came into the room. With 
a beating heart I watched them take their seats and 
make preparations for writing. Finally, turning to 
Beppo, the magistrate said : 

Agata Fiorentini is here. Do you wish her to 
enter ? ” 

Excellenza,” said Beppo, drawing himseK up, it 
wiU be best.” 

In obedience to a signal the gendarme opened the 
door and a woman, supported by two pohce officers, 
slowly entered the room. She was young and had 
once been handsome, but depravity and sickness had 
destroyed her beauty. That she was sick was very 
evident j in fact, the officers had almost to carry her 
to a chair. Perhaps that was the reason they had 
succeeded in effecting her arrest. As she leaned 
back in her seat, very white and weak, she gave one 
glance around the apartment. It was the look of a 


246 


THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO. 


caged animal, and, quick as it was, nothing evaded 
it. Then her eyes dropped. 

Agata Fiorentini,” began the magistrate slowly, 
you are charged with the murder of Girolamo Siotto 
on the morning of the 14th of November, in the 
Palazzo Cenci. What have you to say ? ” 

For a moment the woman looked at him from 
under her long black lashes, and then, in a thin, 
high voice, replied : 

ExceUenza, who accuses me ? ” 

The magistrate pointed to Beppo, who stood at a 
little distance from her, and said : Giuseppe Tom- 
bini.’^ 

The woman flashed one glance from her black eyes 
upon Beppo, and then, after a pause, answered in a 
stohd way : 

“ ExceUenza, it is true. Why should I deny it ? 
I have already confessed it to the good Father 
Anselmd, and he has bidden me, as I hope for absolu- 
tion, to speak the truth. He teUs me that I have not 
long to live, and that is weU. I have nothing to hve 
for, and would rather be dead than alive. So why 
should I fear what the law can do ? Yes, I loved 
Girolamo and I killed him. Let it be written down.’^ 
But the next instant, with startling rapidity, as 
darkness is dispelled by a glare of lightning, her 
stolidity was replaced by fiery passion. Sitting erect, 
she turned upon Beppo, and shaking her hand 
threateningly at him, she cried : 

“ But as for you, Giuseppe Tombini, foreigners 
dog that you are ! you have broken your oath by be- 


THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO. 


247 


traying me. Remember II Falcon! Make your 
peace with God, if you can, for a black cross has 
been set against j^our name. Remember your oath ! 
Remember the Monachetti! Remember the black 
cross 1 It is I, Agata Fiorentini, who bids you re- 
member ! ” 

Witli that she fell back in her chair exhausted. 
While Beppo, apparently unmoved except for a shght 
twitching around his mouth, answered not a word. 

The silence was broken by the magistrate, who, 
after asking a few comparatively unimportant ques- 
tions, to which the woman rephed with sullen brevity, 
committed her to prison. To my surprise, Beppo 
was also taken in charge by the pohce. He seemed 
to anticipate this action, however, for when I was 
about to intercede for his liberty he checked me, and 
said it was necessary that he should remain wdth the 
gendarmes. When they took him away I shook 
hands with him, and tried to teU him how grateful I 
was for aU he had done. But he waved aside my 
protestations and said simply : “ It is not for you, it 
is for Signore Ritter,” and so departed. 

As soon as my owm liberty of action was restored 
to me, I hurried to the German embassy and related 
what had occurred. Beneath the surface of official 
manner I could see that the news created great as- 
tonishment. I w’^as earnestly assured that steps 
would immediately be taken to secure for Ritter the 
full benefit of the real criminal’s confession. Not 
content with this, however, I w^orked day and night, 
incessantly and feverishly, helping to accumulate cir- 


248 


THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO. 


cumstantial evidence to corroborate the woman^s own 
admission, spurring on RitteFs influential advocates 
to demand his release, insisting on prompt action 
and protesting against delay. The result was that 
within four days of Beppo’s unexpected appearance 
in my studio, Franz Ritter, thank God ! was once 
more a free man. 

My Joy was great, but it was not unalloyed. For 
my friend was very fll, so ill that he had to be carried 
from the prison ; so fll that he did not reahze his < 
freedom, or recognize me when I brought him the 
news. The doctors said that he was suffering fi'om 
an attack of brain fever which had been coming on 
for some time, and urged me to remove him imme- 
diately from Rome and its associations. I needed no 
ui'ging, for the place had become hateful to me. With 
the assistance of some of our artist Mends, most of 
whom had shown sympathy in theii* own careless way 
throughout our troubles, I made arrangements for 
carrying Franz away to Civita Yecchia the very next 
day. 

I had not been unmindful all of this time of the 
man who had befriended us, but my days were so i 
occupied that I had been able to see him but once. 

The afternoon before our departure I called to see 
him again, to wish him good-bye. They had placed 
him in a sort of prison in a part of the city remote 
from where Ritter had been conflned. While prac- 
tically he was a prisoner, it was as an important wit- 
ness, and his treatment was not harsh, nor did I have 
any difficulty in obtaining access to him. On the 


THE MYSTERY OF A STUHIO. 


249 


previous occasion when I had visited him, Beppo was 
taciturn and moody, hut now, when I announced to 
him that Ritter was free, he brightened up. His first 
question was whether he might not see him. And 
when I told him how sick Franz was and how he 
was imable to recognize any one, his disappointment 
was pamful to witness. I tried to comfort him as 
well as I could. I pointed out that the trial of the 
Fiorentini woman w^ould in aU likelihood last but a 
few days, and that then he would be at hberty to 
join Franz and me at Civita Vecchia, and help nurse 
his master back to health. I dwelt upon how grate- 
ful Ritter would be when he knew all, and how we 
would always regard him as oim friend. 

At all of w’hich Beppo shook his head and answered 
gloomily : “ Signore, you do not understand. I owed 
my life to Signore Ritter, and I have given him mine 
in return.” 

What do you mean ? ” I said. I confess I do 
not understand. Surely they will set you free when 
the trial is ended, unless,” I added, my old suspicions 
recurring to me, ‘^unless the police have something 
against you of which you have not told me.” 

But Beppo dismissed this idea with a gesture of 
dissent, while he moodily repeated: “You do not 
understand.” 

Then suddenly the threatening language of the 
murderess in the magistrate’s office flashed across my 
mind. 

“ Listen to me, Beppo,” I said. “ I think I know 
now what you are referring to. You belong to some 


250 


THE MYSTEEY OF A STUDIO. 


infernal secret society or other, and you are afraid 
that some of the precious brotherhood are going to 
kill you for testifying against this woman. Isn’t that 
80 V’ 

S — st, signore,” exclaimed Beppo, putting his fin- 
ger on his hps j “ you had better not talk like that.” 

“Nonsense,” I said. “All this mystery is simply 
ridiculous. If this woman’s friends are going to re- 
venge themselves on you, the most sensible thing 
you can do is to tell me all, and it will go de^dhsh 
hard with me and my friends if we can’t stand off 
all the macaroni-eating cut-throats in Rome, before 
we let them do you any harm.” 

I spoke warmly because my anger was aroused, 
partly by the menaces of such a cowardly, treacherous 
thing as this secret society, and partly by Beppo’s 
tame acquiescence in them. But it was useless. 
Beppo’s only reply to my argument was a gloomy 
shake of the head. He seemed to have resigned 
himself to a fatal apprehension, in a stohd, stoical 
way that no reasoning could affect. Only once, 
when I offered to send him to the United States, did 
he seem to take courage, but instantly liis head 
drooped, and he said : 

“ Signore, it is of no use. Rome or America, it is 
all the same. It is only a question of time. What 
does it matter whether the end comes to-day in Rome 
or a month from now in America ? It will surely 
come.” He drew a long breath and then, giving me 
his hand, he continued with some emotion: “All 
that you can do for me is to tell Signore Ritter, when 


THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO. 


251 


he is well enough to understand^ that it was I, Giu- 
seppe Tomhini, who saved him.” 

With that he turned away and, muffling himself 
in his cloak, he lay down upon a bench, once more 
impassive and apparently indifferent to my presence. 
I left him there, but with the determination that 
when the trial was ended I would return and take 
him away with me to Civita Vecchia, whether he 
would or no, and, if necessary, get him off to America. 

As I say, the next morning Franz and I left Rome 
for the sea-coast. For two weeks my comrade drifted 
slowly toward death. But, thank Heaven ! his strong 
young constitution stood him in good stead, and at 
the turning of the tide he came back to hfe. 

It was at the end of the second week, when Franz 
was declared out of danger, that I received a letter 
from my friend at the legation. I had enhsted his 
sympathies for Beppo before leaving, and he had 
promised to keep me informed of the trial of Agata 
Fiorentini. This letter announced that the trial 
had virtually ended, and that Beppo had been set at 
liberty. I cared nothing what the finding of the 
court might be, or what the sentence. My only de- 
sire was to go back to Rome and look after Beppo. 
I was anxious about him, and when I found by 
the date of my letter that it had, as usual, been de- 
layed somewhere for a couple of days, I became still 
more uneasy. 

Saying nothing to Franz of the object of my trip, I 
took the first train for Rome. It was in the early 
morning that I started, and after maldng myself 


252 


THE MYSTERY OF A STUDIO. 


comfortable in the carriage with rugs and shawls, for 
the weather was cold, I proceeded to amuse myself 
with the magazines and papers which had formed 
part of my morning’s mail. Some one writing a vil- 
lainous hand had sent me from the city a copy of 
yesterday’s Voce del Fopolo. With idle curiosity I 
opened it, and almost instantly my eyes fell on a 
pargraph marked heavily in ink with a black cross. 
It was this : 

‘‘found dead in the streets op ROME. 

“ At an eaily hour this morning the body of a man 
was found in the Via Rau. When discovered the 
corpse was lying upon its face with a knife thrust 
in the back. Evidently a case of assassination. The 
only cine to the murder was the poniard with which 
the deed had been committed, and which was stiU 
buried in the wound. On the handle was roughly 
scratched the word ‘ Monachetti.’ At the morgue 
the remains were identified by the police as those of 
Giuseppe Tombini.” 


THE END. 


D. APPLETON & CO.’S PUBLICATIONS. 


RECENT FICTION. 

P URl TAN T A GAN . By Julien Gordon, author of 
“ A Diplomat’s Diary,” etc. i2mo. Cloth, $i.oo. 

“Mrs. Van Rensselaer Cruger grows stronger as she writes. . . . The lines in 
her story are boldly and vigorously etched.” — New York Times. 

“ The author’s recent books have made for her a secure place in current literature 
where she can stand fast. . . . Her latest production, ‘A Puritan Pagan,’ is an eminent- 
ly clever story in the best sense of the word —t hiiadelphia Telegraph. 

“Has already made its mark as a popular story, and will have an abundance of 
readers. . . It contains some useful lessons that will repay the thoughtful study of 

persons of both sexes.” — New York Journal oj Com7nerce. 

Tells with decided power a passionate story, dealing with sin and repentance. . . . 
The narrative is spirited, the action moves steadily toward its climax, and the various 
threads are held well in hand, and are never lost s ght of nor confused. It is excellent 
reading, and has the merit of freshness and unconvention ality.” — Boston Saturday 
Evening Gazette. 

“This bri liant novel will, without doubt, add to the repute of the writer who 
chooses to be known as Julien Gordon. • • The ethical purpose of the author is 

kept fully in evidence through a series of intensely interesting situations.” — Boston 
Beacon. 

“ It is obvious that the author is thoroughly at home in illustrating the manner and 
the sentiment of the best society of both America and Europe.” — Chicago Times. 

MARIAN, ANN OTHER STORIES. 

By Molly Elliot Seawell, author of “ Throckmorton” and 
“ Little Jarvis.” i2mo. Paper, 50 cents ; cloth, $i.co. 

“ A volume of short stories which have the charm of variety. The author is a 
Virginian, who has given us some of the best recent tales, long and short, of the Old 
Dominion, the periods ranging over the past one hundred years. . . . There are very 
few collections of short stories by a woman that men will enjoy so well as that which 
they find between the covers of ‘ Maid Marian.' ” — New York Herald, 

“ There is an unmistakable cleverness in this collection of short stories.” — Boston 
Literary World. 

“ Miss Seawell has a brisk and prolific fancy, apd a turn for the odd_ and fantastic, 
while she is Past Master in the use of negro dialect and the production of tales of 
plantation life and manners. All these stories are spirited, well marked by local color, 
and written with skill and Ingenuity.” — Neiv York Tribune. 

“ Miss Seawell writes capital stories, and in a special^w'ay nothing of late has been 
done better nor more daintily than ‘ Maid Marian. ’ ” — New I ork Times, 

MATTER OF SKILL. By Beatrice Whitby, au- 
thor of “'The Awakening of Mary Fenwick” and “Part of 
the Property.” i2mo. Paper, 50 cents ; cloth, $1.00. 

“ A pretty love-story, told in a gracefully piquant manner, and with a frank fresh- 
ness of style that makes it very attractive in the reading. It is uncommonly well 
written.” — Boston Saturday Evening Gazette. 

“ The story is charmingly told, and is very readable.” — Literary World. 




New York : D. APPLETON & CO., i, 3 . & 5 Bond Street. 


D. APPLETON & CO.’S PUBLICATIONS. 


A NEW HUMOROUS TRAVEL-BOOK. 



WO GIRLS ON A BARGE. 

By V. Cecil Cotes. Illustrated by 
F. H. Townsend. i2mo. Cloth, 
$ 1 . 00 . 


A bright, vivacious sketch of odd people 
and curious experiences, illustrated by the 
artist who illustrated “A Social Departure” 
and “ An American Girl in London,” both of 
which will be recalled by the good spirits of this equally unconventional 
record of a journey down the Thames. 


AN ENGLISH WOMAN'S RECORD OF HER LIFE 

IN AFRICA. 

OME LIFE ON AN OSTRICH FARM. By 

Annie Martin. Illustrated. i2mo. Cloth, $1.25. 

“Not in many days has a more interesting volume descriptive of life in a remote 
land been offered to the public. It is so brightly written, so cheery, so pervaded by 
the South African sunlight, as it were, that the reader regrets the rapidity with which 
he finds himself making his way through its charming pages.” — New York Times. 

“The first chatty book about permanent existence in South Africa. . . . The illus- 
trations are all from photographs of native animals and birds, principally the ostrich, 
in various stages of his homely existence. The style of the book is natural, unaffected, 
cheerful, and frequently approaches the humorous.” — New York Herald. 

“One of the most charming descriptions of African experience that have come 
under our notice. . . . The work does not contain a dull page. It is a sparkling little 
book, of which it would be difficult to speak too highly.” — London Athenceum. 

“ With fluent simplicity and feminine animation the author chats delightfully of the 
quaint daily happenings on her husband’s farm of twelve thousand acres in the Karroo 
district of Cape Colony. . . . The reader will peruse every page with keen enjoy- 
ment, and will feel grateful admiration for the clever, plucky, womanly woman v/ho 
calls herself ‘ Annie Martin.’ ” — New York Sun. 

“We commend the volume heartily to the attention of our readers, assuring them 
that it is impossible not to be charmed and interested in what it has to tell and what it 
tells so admirably.” — Boston Saturday Evening Gazette. 

“ The author’s style is i^ossipy, and she has a sense 
of humor that aids greatly in making her book readable. 

She seems to write without an effort, as if she enjoyed it; 
and before we have gone through the first chapter we 
become warm friends, so that when the final chapter 
arrives, we part with the authoress with sincere regret.” 

— Philadelphia Item. 

“A perfect book of its kind. . . . Mrs. Martin joins 
keen observing powers to a great love of nature, both 
animate and inanimate, and a rare descriptive faculty. 

Her pictures of the farm life, but, above all, of her dumb 
companions, are admirable. . . . The illustrations are 

excellent.” — New York Evening Post. OSTRicii chick. 




New York: D. APPLETON & CO., i, 3, & 5 Bond Street. 


D. APPLETON & CO.’S PUBLICATIONS. 


YOUNG HEROES OF OUR NAVY. 

JUST PUBLISHED. 

J^IDSHIPMAN FA ULDING. A true story of the 
War of 1812. By Molly Elliot Seawell, author of “ Little 
Jarvis.” With Six full-page Illustrations by J. O. Davidson 
and George Wharton Edwards. 8vo. Bound in blue cloth, 
with special design in gold and colors. $1.00. 


NEW EDITION. 

ITTLE JARVIS. The story of the heroic mid- 
shipman of the frigate “Constellation.” By Molly Elliot 
Seawell. With Six full-page Illustrations by J. O. David- 
son and George Wharton Edwards. 8vo. Bound uni- 
formly with “ Midshipman Paulding.” $1.00. 

. Founded on a Uue incident in our naval history. ... So well pictured as to 
bring both smiles and tears upon the faces that are bent over the volume It is in ex- 
actly the spirit for a boy’s book.”— York Home Journal. 

“Little Jarvis was a manly, jolly little midshipman on board the good ship ‘Con- 
stellation,’ in the year 1800; so full of pranks that he spent most of his time in the 
cross-trees and lived prepared for this inevitable fate, with a book in one pocket and a 
piece of hard-tack in the other. . . . His boyish ambition was to smell powder in a real 
battle, to meet and conquer a live French man-of-war. It would be unfair to the reader 
to tell how Little Jarvis conducted himself when at length the ‘Constellation’ grappled 
with the frigate ‘Vengeance’ in deadly combat.” — Providence Journal. 

“ Those who have seen the majestic spectacle of this frigate under full sail will 
understand something of the glow v/ith which the writer tells her tale. The little 
rogue of aj midshipmite,’ just turned thirteen years old, who proves a hero when 
occasion arises. Is sure to prove a popular hero.” — Philadelphia Ledger. 

“ The author makes the tale strongly and simply pathetic, and has given the world 
what will make it better.” — Hartford Courant. 

“ A story of lively interest for the little folks and beautifully illustrated with hand- 
some covers and large type.” — Rochester Union and Advertiser. 

“Not since Dr. Edward Everett Hale’s classic, ‘The Man without a Country,’ 
has there been published a more stirring lesson in patriotism.” — Boston Beaco 7 t. 

“ It is what a boy would call ‘ a real boy’s book.’ ” — Charleston News and Courier. 

“This is the story which received the prize of five hundred dollars offered by 
the Yojtth's Cotnpanion. It was worthy the distinction accorded it.” — Philadelphia 
Telegraph. 

“ It is well to multiply such books, that we may awaken In the youth that read 
them the spirit of devotion to duty of which Little Jarvis is a type. We shall some 
day have need of it a.W.”— A rtny and Navy Journal. 

“Any one in search of a thoroughly good book for boys need look no further, for 
this ranks among the very best.” — Milwaukee Sentinel. 



New York: D. APPLETON & CO., i, 3, & 5 Bond Street. 


D. APPLETON & CO.’S PUBLICATIONS. 



^TRAIGHT ON. A story of a 
boy’s school-life in France. By 
the author of “ The Story of Co- 
lette.” With eighty-six Illustra- 
tions by Edouard Zier. 320 pages. 
i2mo. Cloth, $1.50. 

Few books have appeared in recent years 
which appeal so strongly to the better senti- 
ments of young people as does “-Straight 
On.” It is a deeply interesting novel of the 
experiences of a French officer’s son, who, 
being left an orphan at an early age, resided 
with relatives while attending a military 
school for a term of years. The ups and 
downs of his life in the new home and at 
school, adopting his father’s last words — 
which give the book its title— for his watchword, make an absorbing narra- 
tive, culminating in an act of heroism which delights the reader while it clears 
up a mystery in which many cadets have been involved. The story is charm- 
ingly told and appropriately illustrated. 


ILLUSTRATED EDITION OF “COLETTE.” 

'T^HE STORY OF COLETTE. A new', large-paper 
edition. With thirty-six Illustrations. 8vo. Cloth, $1.50. 


1 


The great popularity which this book has attained in its smaller form has 
led the publishers to issue an illustrated edition, with thirty-six original 
drawings by Jean Claude, both vignette and full-page. 


“ This is a capital translation of a charming nc vel. It is bright, witty, fresh, and 
humorous. ‘The Story of Colette ’ is a fine example of what a French novel can be, 
and all should be.” — Charlestofi News and Coutzer. 


“To the fretful stay-at-home, to the tired mind, to the wearied attention of busy 
men when rest comes with the evening, and to the vexed and careful housewife, this 
bright tale will be received as a gift from the sky, full of pleasant images, quaint figures, 
and piquant thoughts.” — Chicago Tribune. 

“Colette is French and the story is French, and both are exceedingly pretty. The 
story is as pure and refreshing as the innocent yet sighing gayety of Colette’s life.” — 
Providence Journal. 

“ A charming little story, molded on the simplest lines, thoroughly pure, and ad- 
mirably constructed. It is told with a wonderful lightness and raciness. It is full of 
little skillful touches such as French literary art at its best knows so well how to pro- 
duce It is characterized by a knowledge of human nature and a mastery of style and 
method which Indicate that it is the work rather of a master than of a novice. . . .Who- 
ever the author of ‘ Colette ' may be, there can be no question that it is one of the pret- 
tiest, most artistic, and in every way charming stories that French fiction has been 
honored with for a long time.” — New York Tribune. 


New York : D. APPLETON & CO., 1 , 3, & 5 Bond Street. 


Good Books for Young Readers 


JUST PUBLISHED. 

ALL. ^ 

A story of out-door life and adventure in Arkansas. By Octave 
Thanet. With 12 full-page Illustrations by E. J. Austen and others. 
“A story which every boy will read vdth unalloyed pleasure. . . . The adventures 
the two cousins are full of exciting interest, particularly the account of the hog-hunt, 
bich carries one breathlessly along by its moving, spirited, and truthful pictures, 
be characters, both white and black, are sketched directly from nature, for the 
Ithor is thoroughly familiar with the customs and habits of the different types of 
(utherners that she has so effectively reproduced.” — Bosto?i Saturday Evening 
Mzeite. 

JTTLE SMOKE. 

A story of the Sioux Indians.^^ By William O. Stoddard. With 12 
full-page Illustrations by F."' S. Dellenbaugh, portraits of Sitting 
Bull, Red Cloud, and other chiefs, and 60 smaller pictures representing 
the various implements and surroundings of Indian life. 

PREVIOUSLY PUBLISHED IN SAME SERIES. 

:rowded out o’ crofield. 

By William O. Stoddard. The story of a country boy who fought 
his way to success in the great metropolis. With 23 Illustrations by 
C. T. Hill. 

“ There are few writers who know how to meet the tastes and needs of boys bet- 
r than does William O. Stoddard. This excellent story is interesting, thoroughly 
[ bolesome, and teaches boys to be men, not prigs or Indian-hunters. '^f our boys 
I 3uld read more such books, and less of the blood-and-thunder order, it would be 
re good fortune.” — Detroit Free Press. 

:iNG TOM AND THE RUNAWAYS. 

By Louis Pendleton. The experiences of two boys in the forests of 
Georgia. With 6 Illustrations by E. W. Kemble. 

“The doings of ‘ King’ Tom, Albert, and the happy-go-lucky boy Jim on the 
famp-island, are as entertaining in their way as the old sagas embodied in Scandi- 
tvian story.” — Philadelphia Ledger. 

‘HE LOG SCHOOL-HOUSE ON THE COLUM- 
BIA. By Hezekiah Butterworth. With 13 full-page Illustra- 
tions by J. Canton Bp:ard, E. J. Austen, and others. 

“ This book will charm all who turn its pages. There are few books of popular 
formation concerning the pioneers of the great Northwest, and this one is worthy 
’ sincere praise.” — Seattle Post-Intelligencer. 

'he above are bound uniformly, in cloth, with special design in silver. 

8 vo. $ 1.50 each. 


For sale by all booksellers, or will be sent by mail on receipt 0/ price by the publishers, 

D. APPLETON & CO., 1, 3, & 5 Bond Street, New York, 


“ The Leading Novel of the Year J 


THE FAITH DOCTO: 


By EDWABD EGGLESTON, 

Author of “The Hoosier Schoolmaster,” “The Circuit Rider,” 


12mo. Cloth, $1.50. 


“ Dr. Eggleston has made a distinct advance in his literary work in ‘ The Faith’^ 
tor,’ the latest novel from his pen. Dr. Eggleston’s writing is really American ii 
character, without making much parade or profession on this point ; but he has take 
new phase of American life in this book, and he has treated it very ably, besides evini 
an increase of literary BkiW"'— Boston Herald,. 


A New Story by the Author of ** Rutledge.** 


AN UTTER FAILUR 


By MIEIAM COLES HARRIS, 

Author of “Rutledge.” 

ISmo, 334 pages. - • Cloth, $1.25. 


FREELAND : A Social Antieipatioii 


By Dr. THEODOR HERTZKA. 
12mo. Cloth, $1.00. 


A most interesting attempt to work out the social problems which confroi 
the world to-day. It is a description of an ideal community founded upon ne 
and yet not impossible conditions. In Germany this book has met with a su 
cess equal to that of Looking Backward in this country, and, like the latt( 
book, it has led to the foundation of clubs and societies, and to efforts to pi 
the plans of the author into actual practice. 


For sale ly all booksellers, or loill be sent by mail on receipt of price by the publisheri 


New York: D. APPLETON & CO., 1, 3, & 5 Bond Street. 











V- % - 

. _^^v\ ^ , V ._. , ;\_' ° ’ ' . 0 ~ 





• * S 



V 



“= o' r 


~0 4 ’ ,, o’* 

i<, / J N « \V 

- \^ g. ^ ^ 






o'. ^ oV* -'■ 

, . '^'V , S ' 

-0 ' c 0 ^ 4- ^ * -f 

V 4 ^rvTs^ ^ »TV \ 


A * ^ 

S ^ 






0 







- .i!l>"^J‘. = 








V sf> 

O ^ V» ■> rO^ o'""., -^p. * ..i' .'^"« ' 

V . ■< ■'b 0^ => isS^^ ' '*tA V^ Mu^n, . 


'/:%, 'P 

rf. 




\ 0 o,. 


r-. 

i .0 ° 

^O^^vlV-.^ c. 

b ^‘■Jitm^^ .p 

^ .. 



•V 


<r^v- s " " 3 N 0 



V 


' , 


A 


ii^ 

v'' ^ 


i 

■V . a 

^ It ^ ^A . t u 0 ^ Jl t;^ 

K . " ■^o 0 ^ ° 




® ' ^ '^onp'^ * u I A 

^ “*' * V- C. . - a'O- 




pr ^ A ^ 

■\ tr 

" \^ . . ’^/ 0 ’ 
.V , <.^ ' * >? 





.V 




^ oV ’ 






^ 0 N C ^ ^ ^ ^ V 1 fl ^ 







